University   o. 

California 

Irvine 


CANZON1. 


\NZON! 


*   k 


BY 


.anote  wl'waj  ?.»•»[>  93«  ,'mo-j 


SLOAN 


:912 


David  McKay,  Publisher 

610  f>.  Washington  Sa. 


CANZONI 


BY 


PICTURES   BY  JOHN   SLOAN 


Thousand,  April,  1912 


David  McKay,  Publisher 

610  S.  Washington  Sq. 

Philadelphia 


PS 


Copyright,  IQOO  l-y  V.  A.  DALV. 
Firtt  Edition,  Oetobtr,  tqob. 
Second  Edition,  Xo^irmbtr,  tqoo 
Third  Edition,  J-'ttruary,  IQffJ- 
Fourth  Edition,  August,  iQffJ- 
Fifth  F.dition,  AitfMtt,  M)o8. 
Sixth  Edition,  y*ne,  IQOQ. 
Sn-rnth  Edition,  June,  tQto. 
Eighth  Edition,  April,  /<?//. 
Ninth  Ed  it  inn.  Afrit,  tgtf. 


To  MY  WIFE 

AND 
CHILDREN. 


CONTENTS. 

DA  COMICA  MAN 13 

GOOD  MORNING 15 

CARLOTTA'S  INDECISION 17 

BALLADE  TO  THE  WOMEN 19 

MIA  CARLOTTA 21 

IN  THE  AUGUST  NIGHT 24 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  THRUSH 26 

DA  BLUE  DEVIL 28 

FATHER  O'SHEA  AND  FATHER  M'CREA        ....  30 

PADRE  ANGELO 33 

HEARTS  APART 37 

BALLADE  OF  THOSE  PRESENT 38 

LEETLA  HUMPY  JEEM 40 

IF  You  WERE  A  BOY 42 

CORNAYLIUS  HA-HA-HA-HANNIGAN 45 

A  NEW  PATRIOT 47 

HOUSE  AND  HOME 49 

DOLCE  FAR  XIENTE 51 

A  DIXIK  LULLABY 52 

DA  GREATA  STRONGA  MAN 54 

9 


10  CONTEXTS. 

To  A  WEE  COQUETTE 56 

THE  OUCHES 57 

BETWEEN  Two  LOVES 58 

FATHER  DAN  O'MALLEY 61 

CONTENT 64 

WAT'SA  USE? 65 

Kiss  HER 66 

DEAR  UNSELFISH  DAN 68 

HER  ANSWER .70 

KITTY'S  GRADUATION 71 

AN  ITALIAN  KING 76 

DA  PRITTA  LADY 77 

A  FROSTY  MORNING 79 

To  THE  GROWLER 81 

DEESA  GREATA  HOLIDAY 82 

THE  NATIONAL  ENCAMPMENT 84 

AT  CASTLE  GARDEN 85 

DA  BESTA  FRAND 89 

THE  WISDOM  OF  THE  SPARROWS 92 

THE  MODEST  COLLEEN 94 

THE  OLD  PARISHIONER 96 

LEETLA  GIORGIO  WASHEENTON 98 

BALLADE  OF  MODEST  HEROES 101 

THE  BUILDING  INSPECTOR 103 

THE  IRISH  BACHELOR 105 

To  A  PLAIN  SWEETHEART 107 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  NORTH 108 


CONTENTS.  II 

A  BOOK  NOT  "GIVABLE"      . no 

DA  MUSICA  MAN 113 

THE  MODERATE  DRINKER 114 

DA  'MERICANA  GIRL 116 

FAINT  HEART 118 

DA  LEETLA  BOY      .      . 119 

BALLADE  OF  FAMILY  NAMES 122 

DA  STYLEESHA  LADY 124 

ALMOST 126 

CAREY,  THE  KILL- JOY 118 

A  LESSON  IN  POLITICS 130 

MISTLETOE  AND  HOLLY 132 

THE  IRISH  NATIONAL  BIRD 133 

HANDICAPPED 134 

BALLADE  OF  THE  POOR  TOURIST 136 

THE  FIGHTING  RACE 138 

PADRE  DOMINEEC 139 

A  FANCY  NICOTIAN 141 

UN  LAZZARONE 144 

BEDFELLOWS • 146 

THOSE  DIRTY  LITTLE  FINGERS 148 

DA  YOUNGA  'MERICAN 151 

NIGHT  IN  BACHELOR'S  HALL 153 

THE  INDOMITABLE  CELT 155 

DA  FAMILY  MAN 156 

DA  FIGHTIN'  IRISHMAN 157 

THE  WEDDING  GUEST 159 


12  CONTENTS. 

THE  SPOILED  CHILD 161 

DA  STVLEESHA  WIFE 163 

THE  KETTLE'S  SUM;  OF  HOME 164 

To  THE  ATHEIST 165 

AT  HOME 167 

To  AN  OLD  LOVER 168 

TREASURE  TROVE 170 

THE  LITTLE  BOY 171 

A  SONG  TO  ONE 172 


DA  COMICA  MAN. 

GIACOBBE  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 
By  tweestin'  hees  face  an'  by  weenkin'  hees  eye 
He  maka  you  laugh  teell  you  theenk  you  weell  die. 
He  don't  gotta  say  som'theeng;  all  he  ees  do 
Ees  maka  da  face  an',  how  moocha  you  try, 
You  no  can  help  laugh  w'en  he  lookin'  at  you — 
Giacobbe  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 

I  deeg  een  da  tranch  weeth  Giacobbe  wan  day; 
Giacobbe  ees  toss  up  da  spadefulla  clay, 
An'  beeg  Irish  boss  he  ees  gat  een  da  way! 
Da  boss  he  ees  look  at  Giacobbe  an'  swear 

So  bad  as  he  can.  but  Giacobbe,  so  sly, 
He  maka  pretand  he  no  see  he  was  dere — 
Giacobbe  Finelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 
13 


I4  DA  COM  1C  A  MAN. 

But  w'en  da  boss  turn  an*  ecs  starta  for  go, 
Giacobbe  look  up  an*  he  mak"  da  face — So! 
I  laugh  an*  I  laugh  lika  deesa — Ho!  ho! 
Da  boss  he  com*  back  an'  he  poncha  my  head, 
He  smasha  my  nose  an'  he  blacka  my  eye — 
I  no  can  help  laugh  eef  I  gona  be  dead. 
Giacobbe  Pirelli  so  funny,  O!  My! 


GOOD  MORNING. 

DAY  dawns,  and  bids  the  blushing  sky 

"Good  morning!" 
The  flute-voiced  birds  take  up  the  cry: 

"Good  morning!" 

And  nearer  home,  beneath  the  eaves, 
The  gnarled  old  maple's  tender  leaves 
That  shivered  in  the  midnight  rain, 
Now  whisper  at  my  window-pane: 

"Good  morning!" 
The  genial  sun  peeps  o'er  the  hill 
And  laughs  across  my  window  sill. 
Eyes  quiver  under  sleepy  lids — 
This  is  the  King  himself  who  bids 

"Good  morning!" 

I  rise  and  ope  the  window  wide. 
The  sun-kissed  breezes  charge  and  ride 
Straight  through  the  breach  in  merry  rout, 
And  scale  the  walls  and  fairly  shout: 
"Good  morning!" 
IS 


16  GOOD  MOK\I\G. 

They  make  me  captive  to  the  King, 
They  pluck  at  me  and  bid  me  sing 
Their  paean  to  the  Golden  Day, 
Whose  conquering  slogan  is  their  gay 
"Good  morning!" 

They  frolic  here,  they  scamper  there, 
They  clutch  the  singing  birds  in  air, 
On  all  the  world  their  music  beats 
Until  the  captive  world  repeats: 

"Good  morning!" 

Heart  calls  to  heart.    The  surly  wight, 
Who  scorned  his  neighbor  yesternight, 
With  smiling  visage  stops  to  greet 
That  neighbor  in  the  busy  street: 

"Good  morning!" 

O!  joyous  day!     O!  smile  of  God, 
To  hearten  all  who  toil  and  plod; 
We  hail  thee,  Conqueror  and  King! 
We  hug  our  golden  chains  and  sing: 
"Good  morning!" 


CARLOTTA'S   INDECISION. 

I  WOULD  lika  mooch  to  know 
Why  Carlotta  treat  me  so. 
Evra  time  I  ask  eef  she 
Ees  gon'  marry  weetha  me, 
First  she  smila,  den  she  frown, 
Den  she  look  me  up  an'  down, 
Den  she  shak'  her  head  an'  say: 
•'I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day." 

Once  w'en  we  are  out  for  walk 
An'  I  am  begin  to  talk, 
She  say:     "Don'ta  speak  no  more. 
O!  com',  see  dees  jew'ler  store. 
My!  jus'  look  dat  di'mon'  reeng! 
Eet  ees  justa  sweetes'  theeng! 
Only  seexa-feefty,  see?" 
17 


i8  CARLOTTA'S  INDECISION. 

Dat's  da  way  she  teasa  me, 
Findin'  theengs  for  talka  'bout 
Jus'  for  male'  me  shut  my  mout'. 
Bimeby  w'en  she  turn  for  go 
I  say:     "Com",  I  musta  know — " 
"O!"  she  stamp  her  foot  an*  say: 
"I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day." 

I  would  lika  mooch  to  know 
Why  Carlotta  treat  me  so. 
W'ata  for  she  always  say: 
"I  gon'  tal  you  Chrees'mas  Day"? 


BALLADE  TO  THE  WOMEN. 

THE  poets,  extolling  the  graces 

Of  sweet  femininity,  pay 
Particular  court,  in  most  cases, 

To  Phyllis  or  Phoebe  or  Fay. 

"A  toast  to  the  ladies!"  they  say — 
As  "ladies"  they  always  address  them — 

And  bid  us  bow  down  to  them.     Nay! 
We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

Though  light-o'-loves,  frail  as  the  laces 

And  satins  in  which  they  array 
The  charms  of  their  forms  and  their  faces, 

Are  "ladies"  for  their  little  day, 

The  feet  of  such  idols  are  clay. 
Our  wives,  when  we  come  to  possess  them, 

Must  loom  to  us  larger  than  they. 
We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 
J9 


20  BALLADE   TO   THE    \VOME\\ 

Sweet  creatures  who  make  the  home-places 
As  cheerful  and  bright  as  they  may, 

Whose  feminine  beauty  embraces 
A  heart  to  illumine  the  way, 
Though  skies  may  be  ever  so  gray; 

Good  mothers,  whose  children  caress  them 
And  hail  them  as  chums  at  their  play — 

We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 

ENVOY. 
O!  Queen,  teach  the  "ladies,"  we  pray, 

Whenever  vain  notions  oppress  them, 
Though  idly  their  charms  we  survey, 

We  sing  the  plain  "women,"  God  bless  them! 


MIA  CARLOTTA. 

GIUSEPPE,  da  barber,  ees  greata  for  "mash," 

He  gotta  da  bigga,  da  blacka  mustache, 

Good  clo'es  an'  good  styla  an'  playnta  good  cash. 

W'enevra  Giuseppe  ees  walk  on  da  street, 
Da  peopla  dey  talka,  "how  nobby!  how  neat! 
How  softa  da  handa,  how  smalla  da  feet." 

He  raisa  hees  hat  an'  he  shaka  hees  curls, 
An'  smila  weeth  teetha  so  shiny  like  pearls; 
O!  many  da  heart  of  da  seelly  young  girls 

He  gotta. 
Yes,  playnta  he  gotta — 

But  notta 

Carlotta! 

Giuseppe,  da  barber,  he  maka  da  eye, 
An'  lika  da  steam  engine  puffa  an'  sigh, 
For  catcha  Carlotta  w'en  she  ees  go  by. 
21 


MIA  CARLOTTA. 

Carlotta  she  walka  weeth  nose  in  da  air, 

An'  look  through  Giuseppe  weeth  far-away  stare, 

As  eef  she  no  see  dere  ees  som'body  dere. 

Giuseppe,  da  barber,  he  gotta  da  cash, 
He  gotta  da  clo'es  an'  da  bigga  mustache, 
He  gotta  da  seelly  young  girls  for  da  "mash/* 

But  notta — 
You  bat  my  life,  notta — 

Carlotta. 

I  gotta  i 


IN  THE  AUGUST  NIGHT. 

THE  day  is  done,  with  all  the  heat 
That  swathed  the  swooning  city. 

The  dusk  that  falls  so  cool  and  sweet 
Is  doubly  sweet  with  pity. 

To  those  the  blazing  sun  oppressed, 
What  time  he  played  the  hector. 

The  night-wind  comes  from  out  the  west, 
A  Hebe  bearing  nectar.  • 

Impartially  she  gives  to  all 

A  blessed  draught  ecstatic; 
The  ennuye  in  pleasure's  hall, 

The  sick  child  in  the  attic. 

She  seeks  the  squalid  haunts  of  sin, 

With  gentle  self-abasement, 
She  steals  with  inspiration  in 

The  poet's  open  casement. 
24 


IN  THE  AUGUST  NIGHT.  25 

I  watch  the  pensive  poet  there, 

Beside  his  window  dreaming. 
To  him  the  night,  so  calm  and  fair, 

With  rhapsodies  is  teeming. 

Up  through  the  fields  of  twinkling  spheres 

His  raptured  soul  is  winging, 
And  in  his  fancy's  flight  he  hears 

The  very  heavens  singing. 

Sing,  poet!  Sing  the  night-wind's  song, 
And  weave  your  fancies  through  it; 

Some  heart,  world-weary,  in  the  throng 
Will  beat  responsive  to  it. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  THRUSH. 

AH!  the  May  was  grand  this  mornin'! 

Shure,  how  could  1  feel  forlorn  in 

Such  a  land,  when  tree  and  flower  tossed  their  kisses  to 
the   breeze? 

Could  an  Irish  heart  be  quiet 

While  the  Spring  was  rnnnin'  riot, 
An'  the  birds  of  free  America  were  singin'  in  the  trees? 

In  the  songs  that  they  were  singin' 

No  familiar  note  was  ringin', 
But  I  strove  to  imitate  them  an'  I  whistled  like  a  lad. 

O!  my  heart  was  warm  to  love  them 

For  the  very  newness  of  them — 

For  the  ould  songs  that  they  helped  me  to  forget — an'  I 
was  glad. 

So  I  mocked  the  feathered  choir 
To  my  hungry  heart's  desire, 
An"  I  gloried  in  the  comradeship  that  made  their  joy  my 

own, 

Till  a  new  note  sounded,  stillin' 
All  the  rest.    A  thrush  was  trillin'l 

Ah!   the   thrush   I    left   behind   me   in    the   fields   about 
Athlone! 

26 


THE  SONG  OF  THE   THRUSH.  27 

Where,  upon  the  whitethorn  swayin', 
He  was  minstrel  of  the  Mayin', 
In  my  days  of  love  an'  laughter  that  the  years  have  laid 

at  rest; . 

Here  again  his  notes  were  ringin'! 
But  I'd  lost  the  heart  for  singin' — 

Ah!  the  song  I  could  not  answer  was  the  one  1  knew 
the  best. 


DA  BLUE  DEVIL. 

SOM'TIME  w'en  I  no  feela  good 

An*  beezaness  ecs  flat, 
I  gat  so  blue  I  weesh  I  could 

Be  justa  dog  or  cat. 
W'en  evratheeng  ees  gona  wrong 

An'  I  mus*  fecx  eet  right, 
I  gat  deesgust'  for  work  so  long 

An'  theenk  would  be  delight 
For  be  a  leetla  cat,  baycause 

Da  only  work  she  do 
Ees  wash  her  face  an'  leeck  her  paws> 

An'  after  dat  she  through. 
Eef  you  be  dog  you  jus*  can  go 

For  sleepin'  een  da  sun, 
An'  you  don't  gat  a  wife,  you  know, 

For  aska  you  for  mon'. 
Eet's  mak'  no  odds  how  you  behave 

Eef^you  are  animal; 
You  don't  gat  any  soul  to  save, 

An*  when  you  die,  dat's  all! 
28 


DA  BLUE  DEVIL.  29 


O!  my,  how  easy  kind  of  life 

For  justa  nevva  mind, 
To  run  away  an'  leave  your  wife 

An'  evratheeng  bayhind! 

Dees  ees  da  way  I  feela  w'en 

I'm,  blue,  but,  alia  same, 
W'en  I  am  feel  all  right  agen 

Eet  mak'sa  me  ashame'. 
Wen  devil  gat  ecnside  o'  me 

For  mak'  me  feel  like  dat, 
I  guess  I  would  not  even  be 

A  decen'  dog  or  cat. 


FATHER  O'SHEA  AND  FATHER  McCREA. 

YE  might  search  the  world's  ends, 
But  ye'd  find  no  such  friends 
As  Father  O'Shea  an'  Father  McCrea. 
Very  caustic  in  wit 

Was  Father  O'Shea, 
But  as  droll  every  bit 
Was  Father  McCrea; 
An'  O!  such  a  volley  o'  fun  they  were  pokin', 

The  wan  at  the  other,  as  good  as  a  play, 
Wid  their  ready  replies  an'  their  innocint  jokin', 
When  Father  O'Shea  met  Father  McCrea. 

Now,  upon  a  March  Sunday  it  came  for  to  pass 

Good  Father  McCrea 
Preached  a  very  fine  sermon  an'  then,  afther  Mass, 

Met  Father  O'Shea. 
"  'Twas  a  very  appropriate  sermon  for  Lent 

Ye  delivered  this  minute. 

For  the  season  o'  fastin'  'twas  very  well  meant — 
I  could  find  no  meat  in  it!" 

Said  Father  O'Shea. 

.10 


FATHER  O'SHEA  AND  FATHER  M'CREA.      31 

Then,  quick  as  the  laughther  that  gleamed  in  his  eye, 

Good  Father  McCrea 
Raised  a  finger  o'  protest  an'  made  his  reply 

To  Father  O'Shea. 
"Faith,  I'll  have  to  be  workin'  a  miracle  next, 

To  comply  wid  your  wishes. 

Dare  you  ask  me  for  meat,  my  dear  sir,  when  the  text 
Was  'the  loaves  an'  the  fishes'?" 
Said  Father  McCrea. 

Very  caustic  in  wit 

Was  Father  O'Shea, 
But  as  droll  every  bit 
Was  Father  McCrea; 
Though  ye'd  search  the  world's  ends 
Ye  would  find  no  such  friends 
As  Father  O'Shea  an'  Father  McCrea. 


PADRE  ANGELO. 

PADRE  Angelo    he    say: 
"Why  you  no  gat  married,  eh? 
You  are  maka  playnta  mon' 
For  gon'  taka  wife,  my  son." 
"No;  I  am  too  beeza  man 
'Tandin'  dees  peanutta  stan'. 
I  no  gatta  time  for  play 
Fooleeshness  weeth  girls,"  I  say. 
"My!  you  don'ta  tal  me  so?" 
Ees  say  Padre  Angelo. 

Bimeby,  mebbe  two,  t'ree  day, 
Younga  girl  she  com'  an'  say: 
"Padre  Angelo  ees  here? 
No?     Eet  eesa  vera  queer! 
Heesa  housakeepa  say 
33 


34 


PADRE  ANGELO. 

I  gon'  find  hccm  deesa  way." 
While  she  eesa  speaka  so 
Ees  com*  Padre  Angelo. 
"Rosa!  you  are  look  for  me?" 
He  ees  say  to  her,  an'  she 
Say:    "O!  please,  go  homa,  queeck, 
You  are  want'  for  som'  wan  seeck. 
I  am  sand  for  find  you  here." 
"Ah!  da  seecka-call,  my  dear. 
Com',"  say  Padre  Angelo, 
"Deesa  younga  man  ees  Joe; 
Shaka  han's  bayfore  we  go. ' 
So  I  am  shak'  han's  weeth  her — 
Leetla  han'  so  sof  like  fur — 
Den  she  bow  to  me  an'  go 
Weetha  Padre  Angelo. 

Bimeby,  s'pose  two,  t'ree  day  more, 
She  ees  com'  jus'  like  bayfore, 
An'  she  aska  me:    "You  know 
Where  ees  Padre  Angelo? 
Housakeep*  she  tal  me  wait 
Eef  he  don't  be  vera  late." 
So  I  tal  her  taka  seat 
An'  to  hav*  som'  fruit  for  eat. 
Den  I  talk  to  her  an'  she 
Smila  sweet  an'  talk  to  me; 


PADRE  ANGELO.  35 

How  long  time  I  do  not  know. 

Den  com'  Padre  Angelo. 

"O!"  she  say,  "go  homa  queeck, 

You  are  want'  for  som'  wan  seeck." 

"My!"  he  say,  "dees  seecka-call! 

I  am  gat  no  peace  at  all. 

O!  well,  com',  my  dear,"  he  say, 

An'  he  takin'  her  away. 

I  am  sad  for  see  her  go 

Weetha  Padre  Angelo. 

Many  times  ees  lika  dat. 
Peopla  always  seem  for  gat 
Seecka  when  he  ees  away. 
Rosa  com'  mos'  evra  day, 
An'  som'  time  she  gatta  stay 
Pretta  longa  time,  you  know, 
Teell  com'  Padre  Angelo. 
Steell  I  no  gat  any  keeck 
How  mooch  peopla  gatta  sceck; 
I  am  feela  glad  cley  do — 
Rosa,  she  no  keeckin',  too. 

Lasta  night  my  Rosa  she 

Go  to  Padre  weetha  me, 

An'  I  tal  heem:    "Pretta  soon — 

Mebbe  so  da  firsta  June — 


36  PADRE  ANGELO. 

Rosa  gona  be  my  wife!" 

He  ees  s'prise',  you  bat  my  life\ 

"Wat?"  he  say,  an'  rub  hees  eyes, 


"Dees  ees  soocha  glada  s'prise! 
My!  you  don'ta  tal  me  so?" 
Ees  say  Padre  Angelo. 


HEARTS  APART. 

To  count  the  days  until  we  twain 
May  read  each  other's  eyes  again. 
And  dwell  once  more  in  Arcady, 
Is  all  my  joy  away  from  thee- 
Is  all  my  joy  and  all  my  pain. 

When  leaden-footed  minutes  wane 
To  hours  that  burden  heart  and  brain. 

'Twere  but  a  useless  agony 

To  count  the  days, 

Did  thy  most  gracious  heart  not  deign 
To  bid  my  own  heart  entertain 

The  hope  of  better  things  to  be; 

Did  I  not  know  thy  constancy 
And  that,  until  we  meet  again, 
Two  count  the  days. 


37 


BALLADE  OF  THOSE  PRESENT. 

To  the  papers  whose  trade *is  supplying 

The  news  in  a  gossipy  way, 
All  the  workaday  world  should  be  hieing, 

Its  compliments  grateful  to  pay. 

How  kind  to  the  public  are  they 
When  they  publish  our  names  in  their  pleasant 

Descriptions  of  ball  or  soiree 
As  "among  the  most  prominent  present!" 

When  we  sit  at  the  banquet  board,  trying 

To  tickle  our  palates  blase, 
Comes  a  thought  that  is  more  gratifying 

Than  all  the  Lucullan  array; 

More  sweet  than  the  sherry's  bouquet, 
Or  the  flavor  of  succulent  pheasant — 

The  thought  of  appearing  next  day 
As  "among  the  most  prominent  present." 
38 


BALLADE  OF  THOSE  PRESENT.      39 

Since  the  common  folk  simply  are  dying 

To  know  what  we  do  or  we  say, 
It  were  really  a  shame  our  denying 

To  them  all  the  pleasure  we  may. 

Then  the  news  let  the  papers  convey 
To  the  shopman,  mechanic  and  peasant, 

Noting  its  at  the  dance  or  the  play 
As  "among  the  most  prominent  present." 

ENVOY. 
St.  Peter,  receive  us,  we  pray, 

When  we've  done  with  this  world  evanescent, 
Assigning  us  places  for  aye 

As  "among  the  most  prominent  present." 


LEETLA  HUMPY  JEEM. 

DA  'Merican  boys  eesa  vera  bad  lot, 

Dey  steala  peanutta,  banan', 
An'  evratheeng  gooda  for  eatin'  I  got, 

An'  mak'  all  da  troubla  dey  can. 
I  gotta  be  keepin'  awak*  weeth  both  eye 

An'  watch  alia  time  for  a  treeck, 
An'  gotta  be  queecka  for  runnin'  an'  try 

To  spanka  dcir  pants  weetha  steeck. 
Ees  wan  o'  dees  boys  dat  ees  call  "Humpy  Jeem," 

An'  justa  wors'  wan  in  da  pack, 
But  how  am  I  gona  gat  mada  weeth  hecm? 

He  gotta  rla  hump  on  da  back. 

Ees  only  a  poor  Icetla  kccd  an'  so  weak, 

An'  I  am  so  beeg  an'  so  strong, 
I  no  can  gat  mad  an'  I  not  even  speak 

For  tal  heem  how  moocha  ees  wrong. 
40 


LEETLA  HUMPY  JEEM.  41 

Eet  niaka  heem  laugha  baycause  ect  ccs  fun 

For  reach  weeth  hees  theen  leetla  han' 
An'  grabbin'  a  coupla  peanutta  an'  run 

So  fas'  as  hees  skeenny  legs  can. 
So  always  I  maka  pretand  I  no  see 

How  moocha  peanutta  he  tak'. 
I  guess  I  would  like  som"  wan  do  dat  tor  me 

Eef  I  gotta  hump  on  da  back. 

Da  beeg  Irish  cop  ees  say:     "Poor  leetla  Jeem! 

Ees  better  for  heem  if  he  croke." 
I  tal  you  eef  som'theeng  no  happen  to  heem 

I  guess  pretta  soon  I  be  broke. 
I  no  like  to  theenkin'  bad  luck,  but  O!  my! 

I  weeshin'  for  evra  one's  sak' 
Dey  soon  gat  an  angela  up  in  da  sky 

Dat  gotia  da  hump  on  da  back. 


IF  YOU  WERE  A  BOY. 

IF  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 

I  wonder  what  you  would  do? 
Was  ever  a  day  more  perfect, 

Was  ever  the  sky  more  blue? 
I'm  speaking  to  you,  grave  senior. 

I  noticed  you  as  you  went, 
Hot-footing  it  into  the  city, 

To  add  to  your  cent,  per  cent. 
I  noticed  your  sober  manner, 

Your  very  important  looks, 
And  I  noticed  your  boy  beside  you, 

The  schoolboy  with  his  books. 
I  saw — and  you  saw — where  the  river 

Sweeps  down  to  the  "swimmin'-hole," 
Another  boy  playing  "hookey" — 

A  boy  with  a  fishing-pole. 
42 


IF   YOU  WERE  A   BOY. 

If  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 

I  wonder  what  you  would  do? 
I  saw  you  stooping  to  whisper 

A  word  to  the  boy  with  you. 
It  seemed  to  me  then  you  told  him 

That  the  truant  boy  was  a  fool, 
That  nothing  ripens  manhood 

Like  the  moments  spent  in  school. 
With  the  fresh  blue  sky  above  you 

And  the  green  fields  under  it, 
How  dare  you  utter  such  nonsense! 

O!  liar  and  hypocrite? 
If  you  were  a  boy  this  morning, 

A  boy  with  a  heart  and  soul, 
You'd  be,  in  spite  of  a  licking, 

The  boy  with  the  fishing-pole. 


43 


CORNAYLIUS    HA-HA-HA-HANNIGAN. 

TWAS  the  godfather  stuttered,  or  mayhap  the  priest; 
But,  be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  certain,  at  least, 
That  the  wan  or  the  other  was  surely  to  blame 
Fur  presintin'  the  lad  the  quare  twisht  to  his  name. 

For  there  at  the  christ'nin', 

Wid  iv'ry  wan  list'nin', 
Now  didn't  his  Riverence,  Father  O'Flanigan, 

Wid  nervousness  stam'rin', 

Bechune  the  child's  clam'rin', 
Baptize  it  "Cornaylius  Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!" 

Wid  these  words  from  the  priest,  shure,  the  cute  little 

rogue 

Up  an'  stopped  his  own  mouth  wid  his  chubby  kithogue, 
An'  the  dimples  broke  out  an'  prosaded  to  chase 
All  the  tears  an'  the  frowns  from  his  innocint  face. 
For,  faix,  he  was  afther 
Absorbin'  the  laughther 

Stuck  into  his  name  by  good  Father  O'Flanigan! 
Now  that's  the  thruth  in  it, 
An'  so  from  that  minute 
Shure,  iv'ry  wan  called  the  lad  "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan." 

45 


46         CORNAYL1US  HA-IIA-HA-HANNIGAN. 

Now,  the  "ha!  ha!  ha!"  stuck  to  him  close  as  his  name, 
For  the  sorra  a  tear  could  be  drownin'  the  same. 
Not  a  care  iver  touched  him  from  that  blissid  day 
But  his  gift  o'  the  laughther  would  drive  it  away. 
Wid  jokin*  an'  chaffin' 
He  niver  stopped  laughin', 
Or  if  he  did  stop  he  immajiate  began  agin; 
An'  iv'ry  wan  hearin* 
His  laughther  so  cheerin' 

Jisht  j'ined  in  the  mirth  o*  young  "Ha-Ha-Ha-Hanni 
gan." 

Shure,  the  throubles  o'  life  are  so  palthry  an'  small 
Tis  a  pity  we  let  thim  disthurb  us  at  all. 
There  is  niver  a  care  but  would  Pave  us  in  p'ace 
If  we'd  only  stand  up  an'  jisht  laugh  in  its  face. 

Faix,  life  were  a  pleasure 

If  all  had  the  treasure 
Conferred  so  unthinkin'  by  Father  O'Flanigan; 

If  all  could  but  borrow 

That  cure-all  for  sorrow 
Possissed  by  "Cornaylius  Ha-Ha-Ha-Hannigan!' 


A  NEW  PATRIOT. 

EES  no  so  hard  for  Dago  man 

To  be  a  gooda  'Merican. 

Too  dumb,  too  slow,  you  theenka  me, 

But  I  am  sharpa  'nough  for  see 

Da  firsta  theeng  dat  you  mus'  know 

Ees  how  to  speak  da  Inglaice,  so 

Dat  you  can  wave  your  hat  an'  say: 

"Da  redda,  whita,  blue!     Hooray!" 

Eef  you  are  smarta  'Merican 
You  try  for  skeen  som'  udder  man, 
Baycause  you  know  dat  he  weell  do 
Da  sama  kinda  treecks  weeth  you. 
But  you  are  good  as  heem  an'  he 
Ees  jus'  so  good  as  you  an'  me, 
So  long  we  all  stan'  up  an'  say: 
"Da  redda,  whita,  blue!     Hooray!" 
47 


48  A  NEW  PATRIOT. 

For  land  dat  I  was  Iccvin'  ccn 

Da  flag  ccs  rcdda,  whita,  green. 

So  alia  w'at  I  gotta  do 

Ees  jus'  forgat  da  green  for  blue. 

I  skecn  you  eef  I  gatta  chance, 

But  dat  ees  male'  no  dccferance. 

I  gooda  'Mcrican,  an'  say: 

"Da  redda,  whita,  blue!     Hooray  I" 


HOUSE  AND  HOME. 

ON  the  day  when  you  were  wed, 
Seven  Junes  ago,  you  said 
All  your  life's  ambitions  were 
Centred  in  a  home  with  her. 
Wealth  and  health  attending  you, 
All  these  busy  twelvemonths  through, 
Blessed  your  life  and  hers,  and  yet, 
Where's  the  home  you  meant  to  get? 

That's  your  house  across  the  way 
With  the  marble  front,  you  say? 
That's  your  auto  standing  there 
Underneath  the  porte-cochere. 
That  prim  butler  at  the  door 
Very  likely  lords  it  o'er 
Quite  a  dozen  maids  or  more; 
Maids  who  toil  and  maids  who  shirk, 
Maids  for  menial  kitchen  work, 
Maids  who  guard  with  brush  and  broom 
Every  richly  furnished  room, 
Every  polished  oaken  stair; 
Maids  to  dress  milady's  hair — 
49 


5c  HOUSE  AND  HOMR. 

Maids  and  flunkies  everywhere! 
Quite  a  grand  menage,  but,  sir, 
Where's  the  home  you  promised  her? 

Wealth  can  rear  a  gilded  dome; 

Love  and  Duty  make  the  home. 

Gold  is  no  essential  thing 

In  its  proper  furnishing. 

Not  an  auto  at  the  door, 

But  a  coach  becomes  it  more — 

Tiny  coach  whose  one  or  two 

Occupants  resemble  you. 

Gems  of  art  that  grace  your  hall 

You  might  well  exchange  for  small 

Finger-marks  upon  the  wall. 

Lisping  voices,  pattering  feet, 

Furnish  melody  more  sweet 

Than  your  grand  salon  has  known. 

Where's  the  home  you  meant  to  own? 

All  that  lies  behind  your  door 

Is  a  dwelling-place;  no  more. 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE. 

THERE'S  lazy  clouds  a-driftin* 

In  the  lazy  sky  o'  June, 
An'  Nature's  just  in  keepin' 

With  this  lazy  afternoon. 
I've  strolled  out  through  the  meaders 

To  this  pleasant  little  nook, 
An'  I'm  loafin'  in  the  shadders, 

An'  a-listenin'  to  the  brool:. 
But  I  ain't  a  bit  contented — 

Not  a  bit,  an'  that's  a  fac' — 
For  I  can't  help  a-thinkin 

Of  the  long  walk  back. 

The  little  brook's  a-singin' 

Kinder  lazy-like  an'  low, 
An'  it's  mighty  cool  an'  restin' 

Where  its  crystal  waters  flow. 
An'  its  singin'  charms  a  feller, 

An'  it  seems  ter  say  to  him 
As  he's  layin'  nigh  a-dozin': 

"Don't  yer  wanter  take  a  swim?" 
Now  there's  nothin'  I  like  better 

Than  to  take  a  swim,  but  then 
There's  the  trouble  of  a-puttin' 

On  yer  clothes  again. 

Si 


A  DIXIE  LULLABY. 

O!  DE  sun  quit  a-shinin'  fo'  dis  arternoon, 

De  possum  in  de  gum-tree  mighty  still, 
An*  de  ole  San'-Man  jump  off  fum  de  moon 

Wen  hit  done  come  obah  de  hill. 
An'  he  come  erlong  totin'  a  baig  full  o'  san* 

Fo'  ter  frow  inter  pickaninnies'  eyes, 
An'  he  teck  dem  erway  to  de  sweet  slumbcr-lan* 

Fo'  ter  stay  'twell  de  nex'  sun-rise. 

So  g'long  wif  de  San'-Man,  deah, 

De  good  Lawd  keep 

Y<>'  w'ile  yo'  sleep, 
An'  yo'  mammy'll  'wait  yo'  heah. 
52 


A   DIXIE  LULLABY. 

O!  he'll  teck  yo'  up  on  a  bright  moon-ray 

An'  he'll  rock  yo'  on  a  cloud  in  cle  skies, 
An'  he'll  keep  yo'  dar  'twell  de  break  o'  day, 

So,  mah  honey,  jes'  close  yo'  eyes; 
'Less  de  moon  go  down  in  de  far-off  west, 

An'  outer  de  dahk  swamp-Ian' 
De  bad  Boogy-Man  come  out  ob  he  nest 

An'  skeer  off  de  good  San'-Man. 

So  g'long  wif  de  San'-Man,  deah, 

De  good  Lawd  keep 

Yo'  w'ile  yo'  sleep, 
An'  yo'  mammy'll  'wait  yo'  heah. 


53 


DA   GREATA   STRONGA   MAN. 

You  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe 

Wen  he  ees  gatta  mad. 
He  ees  da  strongest  man  I  know 

Wen  som'  wan  treat  heem  bad. 
Hees  eye  eet  flash  like  blazin'  coal, 

An'  w'en  he  ope  hees  mout' 
He  growla  like  you  theenk  hees  soul 

Ees  turna  eenside  out. 
He  eesa  gat  so  stronga  den 

An*  swell  so  big  an'  fat, 
Eet  gona  taka  seexa  men 

For  justa  hold  hees  hat. 

You  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe 

Wen  he  ees  mad  weeth  you. 
You  bat  my  life!  den  you  will  know 

I  eesa  speaka  true. 
He  gat  so  strong  eenside  of  heem 

Eet  mak'  your  hearta  freeze, 
An'  eef  he  looka  at  som'  cream 

Eet  turna  cento  cheese. 
54 


DA  GREAT  A  STRONG  A  MAN.  55 

Den  you  vveell  run,  you  bat  my  life! 

So  fast  as  you  can  go, 
An'  throw  away  your  gun  or  knife. 

Ha!  strong  man,  Uncla  Joe. 


You  oughta  see  my  Uncla  Joe! 

Eet  w'at  you  call  "surprise." 
Las'  night  beeg  Irish  ponch  heem  so 

Eet  close  up  bot'  hees  eyes. 
O!  my!  he  eesa  looka  bad; 

Mus'  be  ees  som'theeng  wrong, 
Baycause  w'en  Uncla  Joe  ees  mad 

He  always  been  so  strong. 
I  guess  dees  Irish  heet  his  blow 

So  queecka  an'  so  rough 
He  no  geeve  time  to  Uncla  Joe 

For  gatta  mad  enough. 


TO  A  WEE  COQUETTE. 

WEE  lady,  such  a  tease  thou  art 

One  may  not  half  believe  thee. 
I  share  a  corner  of  thy  heart, 

And  yet  thou  wouldst  deceive  me; 
For  when  I  beg  thee,  little  Flo, 

To  grant  just  one  caress, 
Thy  pouting  lips  make  answer:     "No!" 

The  while  thine  eyes  say  "Yes." 

Wise  men  assure  us  that  the  heart 

Is  mirrored  in  the  eyes; 
In  thine  I  read  with  lover's  art 

The  truth  thy  tongue  denies. 
So  thou,  my  sweet,  those  eyes  must  close 

Or  yield  to  my  caress, 
For  though  thou  speak  ten  thousand  "Nocsl" 

Thine  eyes  still  answer  "Yes." 


THE  "OUCHES." 

THE  ^'Ouches"  is  the  queerest  crew 

On  earth,  or  anywhere. 
They  al'ays  live  inside  o'  you 

An'  you  don't  know  they're  there. 
For  jist  as  long  as  you  are  nice 

An'  good  as  you  kin  be 
They'll  stay  as  quite  an'  still  as  mice, 

Fur  they're  asleep,  ye  see. 
But  sometimes  when  you  git  a  bump 

'At  makes  you  kind  o'  mad, 
It  wakes  an  Ouch!  an'  out  he'll  jump, 

An'  'at's  a  sign  you're  bad. 

Most  Ouches  makes  your  throat  their  home, 

Or,  leastways,  one  appears 
Right  there  when  mother  starts  to  comb 

Your  hair  or  wash  your  ears. 
An'  funny  thing  about  'em,  too, 

My  mother  tells  about, 
An  Ouch  can't  do  no  harm  in  you 

If  you  don't  let  it  out. 
So  if  you  really  truly  care 

To  be  the  boy  you  should, 
Jist  shut  your  mouth  an'  keep  'cm  there, 

An'  'at's  a  sign  you're  good. 

57 


BETWEEN  TWO  LOVES. 

I  GOTTA  lov'   for  Angela, 

I  lov'  Carlotta,  too. 
I  no  can  marry  both  o'  dem, 

So  w'at  I  gona  do? 


O!  Angela  ees  pretta  girl, 
She  gotta  hair  so  black,  so  curl, 
An*  teeth  so  white  as  anytheeng. 
An'  O!  she  gotta  voic"e  to  seeng, 
Dat  mak'  your  hcarta  feel  eet  must 
Jump  up  an'  dance  or  eet  weell  bust. 
58 


BETWEEN  TWO  LOVES. 

An'  alia  time  she  seeng,  her  eyes 
Dey  smila  like  Italia's  skies, 
An'  makin'  flirtin'  looks  at  you — 
But  dat  ees  all  w'at  she  can  do. 


Carlotta  ees  no  gotta  song, 

But  she  ees  twice  so  big  an*  strong 

As  Angela,  an'  she  no  look 

So  beautiful — but  she  can  cook. 

You  oughta  see  her  carry  wood! 

I  tal  you  w'at,  eet  do  you  good. 

When  she  ees  be  som'body's  wife 

She  worka  hard,  you  bat  my  life! 


6o 


nro 


She  never  gaum'  lired,  too— 
But  dat  ces  all  w'at  she  can  do. 


O!  my!  I  weesh  dat  Angela 

Was  strong  for  carry  wood, 
Or  else  Carlotta  gotta  song 

An'  looka  pretta  good. 
I  gotta  lov*  for  Angela, 

I  lov'  Carlotta,  too. 
I  no  can  marry  both  o'  dem, 

So  w'at  I  gona  do? 


FATHER  DAN   O'MALLEY. 

WHIN  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate  to  St.  Ann's, 
There  was  work  in  Dublin  Alley  layin'  ready  to  his  han's. 
Aye!  'twas  work  o'  sich  a  nature  that  no  common  man 

could  do, 
Fur,   indade,   the  only  t'acher  that  the  Alley  gossoons 

knew 
Was  the  Divil  that  was  lurkin'   in  the  badness  of  their 

hearts, 

And  it's  never  aisy  wurkin'  fur  to  strive  agin  his  arts. 
But  although  he's  cute,  fur,  shure,  it  is  the  Divil's  trade 

to  schame, 

Ye  can  trust  an  Irish  curate  fur  to  bate  him  at  his  game. 
There  was  little  dilly-dally  in  the  layin'  out  of  plans 
Whin  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate  to  St.  Ann's. 

Now,  the  trouble  jisht  was  layin'  in  the  fact  that  as  a  rule 
The  gossoons  thought  more  of  playin'  than  of  goin'  to 

Sunda'  school. 
Ev'ry  plisant  Sunda'  mornin',  faith,  ye'd  find  thim  at  their 

game, 

61 


62  FATHER  DAN  O'MALLEY. 

Nor  could  any  threat  or  warnin'  make  thim  feel  a  sinse 

o'  shame. 

An'  of  all  the  little  divils  that  desp'iled  the  holy  day, 
The   ringleader   of  their   rivels   was   that   rascal,   Paddy 

Shea. 
He  could  set  a  top  a-spinnin'  till  ye'd  think  'twould  never 

stop, 
An'  the  marbles  he  was  winnin'  would  have  aisy  stocked 

a  shop. 

Not  a  soul  in  Dublin  Alley  'd  won  a  vict'ry  from  his  han's 
Till  Father  Dan  O'Malley  came  as  curate  to  St.  Ann's. 

Father  Dan  was  big  an'  jolly,  wid  a  heart  that  filled  his 

chist, 

An'  a  smile  that  it  was  folly  fur  ye  tryin'  to  resist. 
Well,  it  took  a  bare  half-hour  of  one  Sunda'  morn  in  May 
Fur  to  dimonstrate  his  power  over  roguish  Paddy  Shea. 
Though   the   bells   had    rung  their  rally  to   the   Sunda' 

school,  the  hall 

Showed  no  lad  of  Dublin  Alley  had  appeared  at  all,  at  all. 
Father  Dan  wint  out  a-gunnin*  fur  the  rogues  that  stayed 

away, 
An'  the  rascals  started  runnin',  but  he  captured  Paddy 

Shea. 
Thin  it  was  that  Dublin  Alley  passed  from  out  the  Divil's 

han's, 
Fur  Father  Dan  O'Malley  now  was  curate  at  St.  Ann's. 


FATHER  DAN  O'MALLEY.  63 

"Now,  me  boy,"  sez  he  to  Paddy,  "y°u're  the  champeen 

player  here, 
So  you'll  play  wid  me,  me  laddie,  jisht  to  make  yer  title 

clear; 
Is  it  marbles  ye've  been  playin'?    Well,  we'll  start  agin 

to  play, 
But  you'll  bend  yer  knees  to  prayin'  whin  I've  licked  ye, 

Paddy  Shea. 
Come  along,  you  rogue!     Your  luck'll  not  avail  ye  now 

to  win. 
Whisht!     More  power  to  me  knuckle,  'tis  the  Church's 

work  it's  in." 
From  the  very  first  beginnin'  Father  Dan  outplayed  the 

lad, 

An'  he  wasn't  long  in  winnin'  ev'ry  marble  that  he  had. 
After  that  the  Dublin  Alley  lads  was  putty  in  the  han's 
Of  Father  Dan  O'Malley,  who  is  curate  at  St.  Ann's. 

So  the  Sunda'  school  is  crowded  to  the  doors  this  blessed 

day, 
Fur  the  lads  had  lost  their  marbles  to  the  skill  of  Paddy 

Shea, 
An'  the  leader  o'  the  Alley  has  in  turn  throwed  up  his 

han's 
To  Father  Dan  O'Malley,  who  is  curate  at  St.  Ann's. 


CONTENT. 

ALONG  about  this  time  o'  year, 

The  while  I  set  a-blinkin' 
In  the  warm  sunshine  here, 

I  always  git  to  thinkin' 
The  old  farm  ain't  so  bad  a  place, 

But  what  I  feel  some  pity 
Fur  the  dumb  fools  thet's  in  the  race 

Fur  gold  down  in  the  city. 
You  don't  ketch  me  a-praying  God 

To  better  my  position. 
I  only  want  my  fishin'-rod 

An'  time  to  go  a-fishin'. 
1  got  a  shirt,  a  pair  o'  pants, 

Coat,  hat,  an'  appetite; 
I  know  the  fish,  an'  all  their  ha'nts 

An'  when  they're  like  to  bite. 
An'  all  the  clo'es  I  want  is  what 

Will  keep  off  chill  an'  shiver, 
While  I'm  a-settin*  in  this  spot — 

The  best  along  the  river. 
Ketch  me  a-combin'  of  my  hair 

An'  wearin'  cuffs  an'  collars! 
I  wouldn't  be  a  millionaire 

Fur  seven  hundred  dollars! 
64 


W'AT'SA  USE? 

W'AT'SA  use  for  gattin'  mad 
Jus' .baycause  you  feela  bad? 
You  gon'  feela  worse  an'  worse 
Eef  you  gona  stop  an'  curse 
Evra  time  ees  som'thceng  wrong. 
You  no  gotta  leeve  so  long. 
Wan,  two,  t'ree,  four  year,  bimeby, 
Mebbe  so  you  gona  die. 
So  ees  best  from  day  to  day 
Maka  sunshine  weetha  hay. 
Don't  be  gattin'  mada  while 
You  can  hava  time  to  smile. 
W'at'sa  use? 

Padre  Smeeth  he  tal  me,  too, 
Justa  like  I  tal  to  you. 
Wan  day  he  ees  say,  "Hallo! 
Wat  ees  mak'  you  growla  so? 
Evra  time  you  gatta  mad 
Eet  ees  mak'  Diablo  glad. 
Justa  laugh  an'  don'ta  care, 
Den  you  mak'  Diablo  swear." 
Smila  now  an'  den  bimeby 
You  can  smila  w'en  you  die. 
Growla  now  an'  you  weell  yell 
Weeth  Diablo  down  een — well 
W'at'sa  use? 

65 


KISS  HER. 

SAY,  young  man!  if  you've  a  wife, 

Kiss  her. 
Every  morning  of  your  life, 

Kiss  her. 

Every  evening  when  the  sun 
Marks  your  day  of  labor  done, 
Get  you  homeward  on  the  run- 
Kiss  her! 

Even  though  you're  feeling  bad, 

Kiss  her. 
If  she's  out  of  sorts  and  sad, 

Kiss  her. 

Act  as  if  you  meant  it,  too; 
Let  the  whole  true  heart  of  you 
Speak  its  ardor  when  you  do 

Kiss  her. 
66 


KISS  HER.  67 

If  you  think  it's  "soft,"  you're  wrong. 

Kiss  her! 
Love  like  this  will  make  you  strong. 

Kiss  her. 

You're  her  husband  now,  but  let 
Her  possess  her  lover  yet. 
Every  blessed  chance  you  get, 

Kiss  her. 

Every  good  wife  lets  her  man 

Kiss   her. 
Be  a  man  then,  when  you  can; 

Kiss   her. 

If  you'd  strike  with  telling  force 
At  the  Evil  of  Divorce, 
Just  adopt  this  simple  course: 

Kiss  her. 


DEAR  UNSELFISH  DAN. 

'MosT  every  one  that  knowed  our  Dan 
Agreed  he  was  the  kindest  man 
They  ever  see.     He  had  the  knack 
Of  takin'  on  his  own  broad  back 
The  burdens  an'  the  slaps  and  pokes 
Belonged  by  rights  to  other  folks. 
If  any  one  was  in  distress 
An'  went  to  Dan,  he'd  say:    "I  guess 
We'll  pull  you  out  all  right;  let's  see, 
Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 

Was  nothin*  finer  than  the  way 
He  cared  for  poor  old  Uncle  Jay, 
Who  was  the  most  unlucky  han* 
For  havin'  trouble  with  his  Ian' 
'Bout  taxes,  or  the  early  spring 
Plowin',  or  some  other  thing 
That  plumb  upsot  the  poor  old  man. 
Then,  in  the  nick  o'  time,  our  Dan 
Steps  in,  and  sez,  "Don't  fret,"  sez  he, 
"Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 
68 


DEAR  UNSELFISH  DAN.  69 

It  got  to  be  that  Uncle  Jay 
He  couldn't  git  along  no  way 
Without  our  Dan,  an'  our  Dan  he 
Jest  cared  fur  him  unselfishly. 
An'  when  the  old  man  come  to  die 
Our  Dan,  o'  course,  was  right  close  by. 
Sez  Uncle  Jay:    "I'm  worrit,  Dan, 
'Bout  what's  to  come  of  all  my  Ian' 
An'  all  my  money  out  at  loan, 
An'  in  the  bank,  when  I  am  gone." 
Then  Dan,  he  ups  an'  sez,  sez  he : 
"Suppose  you  leave  all  that  to  me." 


HER  ANSWER. 

"DEAR  Nell,"  he  wrote,  "these  violets 
I've  made  so  bold  to  send  to  you 

Shall  be  my  mute  ambassadors; 
And  each  shall  tell  how  deep  and  true 

The  sender's  love  is,  craving  yours 

For  him.    What  messengers  more  meet? 

Are  they  not  typical  of  you, 
They  are  so  sweet?" 

"Dear  Jack,"  she  wrote,  "your  violets 
Have  just  this  moment  been  received. 

Their  message  took  me  by  surprise, 
'Twas  something  scarce  to  be  believed. 

I  send  my  answer  back  with  them; 
What  fitter  messengers  for  you? 

So  typical  of  how  you'll  feel — 
They  are  so  blue!" 


KITTY'S   GRADUATION. 

DUBLIN  Alley  jisht  was  crazy,  jubilation  was  the  rule, 
Chewsday  week  whin   Kitty  Casey  won  the  honors  at  the 

school. 

Shure,  the  neighbors  had  been  waitin',  all  impatient  of  delay, 
For  to  see  her  graduatin'  on  that  most  important  day. 
Eddication  is  a  power,  an'  we  owned  wid  one  accord 
Casey's  girl's  the   sweetest   flower  ever  blossomed  in  the 

ward, 
Whin,  wid   dress   white  as  the  daisy,  but  wid  cheeks  that 

shamed  the  rose, 
We  beheld  wee  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation  clo'es. 

Now,  this  Casey  loved  his  daughther  in  a  most  indulgent 

way, 

An'  he  spent  his  gold  like  wather  for  her  graduation  day. 
Sich  a  dale  of  great  preparin'!     Shure,  ye'd  think  she  was  a 

bride; 

Sorra  hair  was  Casey  carin'  for  a  blessed  thing  beside. 
For  whin  Casey  once  comminces,  faith,  he  niver  stops  at  all, 
An'  he  dressed  her  like  a  princess  at  a  Coronation  Ball. 
An'  'twas  Madame  Brigette  Tracy  for  dressmaker  that  he 

chose, 

For  to  fit  out  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation  clo'es. 

71 


KITTY'S  GRADUATION. 


Of  dressmakers,  shure,  the  oddest  was  this  one  that  Casey'd 

got, 
For  her  bill-heads  called  her  "Modiste,"  though  the  prices 

there  did  not. 


"But,"  scz  Casey,  "I  can  stan  it  for  to  pay  a  few  more  cints, 
So  jisht  go  ahead  an'  plan  it,  ma'am,  raygardless  of  ixpinse." 


Kl  TTY'S  GRA D UA  TION. 


73 


"Bong  Moonseer,"  sez  she,  "I'll  try  it  wid  the  usual  'savoir 
fair.'  " 


"As  fur  that,"  sez  Casey,  "buy  it,  wid  the  other  things  she'll 

wear." 

So  ye  see  the  man  was  crazy  for  to  get  the  best  that  goes 
For  his  little  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation  clo'es. 


KITTY'S  GRADUATION. 


75 


All   the    women   jisht   were   itchin'   for   to   see   her   gettin' 

dressed, 
Some  were  crowded  in  the  kitchen  an'  the  stairway,  while 

the  rest, 

The  most  favored  ones,\vint  rushin'  to  the  livin'  room  above, 
Where  stood  Mrs.  Casey  blushin'  wid  a  mother's  pride  an' 

love. 

"O!"  sez  she,  "  'twould  be  a  pity  if  I  couldn't  schame  an' plan 
So  that  Kitty'd  look  as  pritty  as  Mag  Ryan's  Mary  Ann." 
"Tut!  ye  needn't  be  onaisy,"  sez  a  neighbor.  "Goodness 

knows, 
There'll  be  none  like  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation  clo'es.'' 

An'  there's  really  no  denyin',  whin  they  marched  into  the  hall 
Kitty  Casey  pushed  the  Ryan  girl  complately  to  the  wall. 
Whin  she  made   her  prize   oration  an'  they  gave  her  her 

degree, 

There  was  sich  a  dimonstration  as  ye'll  niver  live  to  see, 
For  the  men  from  Dublin  Alley  voiced  their  feelin's  in  a 

cheer 

Like  they  utther  whin  they  rally  in  a  Dimmycratic  year, 
An'  of  Casey's  proudest  days  he  counts  that  best  of  all  he 

knows 
Which  beheld  his  Kitty  Casey  in  her  graduation  clo'es. 


AN   ITALIAN   KING. 

I  AM  so  good  for  cvratheeng 

I  ouglita  be  clecta  Kceng! 

Ees  no  soin'budy  else  at  all 

So  strung  like  me,  so  bccg,  so  tall, 

An'  no  som'body  else  can  do 

So  grcata  thccngs  like  I  can,  too. 

How  mooch  you  try  you  no  can  be 

So  luia  bccga  man  like  me. 

You  bat  my  life!  I  ouglita  gat 

A  crown  for  wear  censide  my  hat, 

An*  makin*  all  da  style  I  can, 

Baycause  I  am  so  granda  man. 

All  dees  ees  true.     Eh?  how  I  know? 

My  Icetla  boy  he  tal  me  so. 

You  maka  fun  wccth  me  an'  tease, 
An'  call  me  "Dago"  cef  you  please; 
An*  mcbbe  so  I  what  you  call 
"No  good  for  anythecng  at  all," 
An'  you  weell  thccnk  you  speaka  true 
Baycause  ect  looka  so  to  you. 
Wai,  mebbe  som*  time  you  are  right, 
But  not  w'en  I  gat  home  at  night. 
Ha!  dat'sa  time  dat  I  am  Keeng 
An*  I  am  good  for  evratheeng! 
I  know;  baycause  Patricio, 
My  leetla  boy,  he  tal  me  so. 
76 


DA  PRITTA  LADY. 

EES  playnta  reecha  ladies  com' 

By  dees  peanutta-stan'; 
I  like  to  watcha  dem,  for  som' 

Ees  looka  justa  gran'. 
Dey  got  so  fina  hat  an'  dress, 

An'  evratheeng  so  clean, 
Most  any  Keeng  be  proud,  I  guess, 

For  calla  one  hees  Queen. 
Beeg  Irish  cop  say:     "Looka  dat! 

I  tal  you  she's  a  peach! 
Dat's  kinda  wife  a  man  can  gat 

Eef  he  ees  only  reech." 
I  theenk  of  Angela,  my  wife, 

An'  weesha:     "My,  O!  my, 
Eef  she  like  dat,  you  bat  my  life, 

I  would  be  satisfi'." 

But  den  I  theenk,  su'pose  my  wife 

Was  beautiful  like  dees; 
I  would  be  frighten  of  my  life 

To  aska  her  for  keess. 
77 


78  DA  PR1TTA  LADY. 

I  would  be  scare'  to  hug  her  so 

Like  w'at  I  always  do 
To  Angela,  baycause,  you  know, 

She  mebbe  bust  in  two. 
Baysides,  my  Angela  she  gat 

My  baby  at  her  breas'; 
Eet  mighta  not  be  lika  dat 

Eef  she  was  reech,  I  guess. 
No  reecha  lady  coulda  be 

So  pritta  eef  she  try, 
Like  Angela  ees  look  to  me. 

So  I  am  satisfi'. 


A   FROSTY   MORNING. 

I  LOVE  these  frosty  mornings, 

When  all  the  outer  air 
Is  tingling  with  a  freshness 

And  vim  beyond  compare. 

The  north-wind  in  the  tree-tops 
Proclaims  the  coming  dawn, 

And  sends  the  crisp  leaves  rattling 
Across  the  frozen  lawn. 

From  some  adjacent  farmyard 

A  watchful  chanticleer, 
With  raucous,  joyous  crowing 

Assails  the  atmosphere. 

Then,  nearer  home,  a  watchdog, 
Awakened  from  his  sleep, 

Gives  voice  to  his  resentment 
In  tones  prolonged  and  deep. 
79 


80  A  FROSTY  MORNING. 

A  wagon,  bound  for  market, 
Goes  creaking  down  the  road 

I  hear  the  axles  groaning 
Beneath  the  heavy  load. 

The  light  grows  at  my  window, 
And  on  the  pane,  I  see, 

Jack  Frost  has  limned  a  picture 
Of  silver  tracery. 

Now,  from  the  servants'  stairway, 
Slow  feet  descend  the  hall; 

And  then  a  kitchen  shutter 
Bangs  out  against  the  wall. 

I  love,  these  frosty  mornings, 

To  note  these  things,  and  then— 
To  draw  the  bed-clothes  closer 
And  go  to  sleep  again. 


TO   THE   GROWLER. 

BE  patient!    Be  a  Christian  and  forbear 
To  objurgate  the  Weather-man  and  swear 
Because  the  sting  of  winter's  in  the  air. 

Do  you  remember 

Those  days  in  June,  a  few  short  months  ago, 
Whose  scorching  heat  oppressed  and  baked  you  so, 
And  made  you  yearn  the  blest  relief  to  know 

Of  cool  September? 

And  when  September  came  and  in  its  train 
Brought  days  of  frost  and  days  of  sodden  rain, 
Good  gracious!  how  you  kicked  and  growled  again! 

Do  you  remember? 

Those  summer  days  will  soon  have  come  once  more, 
And  you'll  forget  how  bitterly  you  swore 
At  all  the  winter  weather  gone  before. 

Will  you  remember, 
When  you  are  sweltering  in  mid-July, 
The  flakes,  frost-feathered,  that  were  wont  to  fly 
From  out  the  windy  reaches  of  the  sky, 

This  past  December? 

Meantime,  if  you  should  die  and  you  should  get 
Your  just  desserts,  with  O!  what  vain  regret, 
These  winter  days  (because  they're  cold  and  wet) 

You  will  remember! 

81 


DEESA  GREATA   HOLIDAY. 

HOORAH!  for  deesa  General 

Dat  maka  Fourth-July! 
I  sella  playnta  lemonade, 

Banan'  an*  cake  an'  pie. 
He  maka  beezaness  for  me 

At  dees  peanutta-stan', 
An'  w'en  I  eesa  gotta  time 

I  go  for  shak'  hees  han'. 

W'en  I  am  com'  America, 

Some  fallow  on  da  sheep 
He  tal  how  deesa  General 

He  "mak*  da  Inglaice  skeep." 
"We  don'ta  wanta  fightin'  here," 

Dees  General  he  say, 
"So,  Meester  Inglaice  Fightin'-man, 

You  besta  go  away." 
An'  den  dees  Inglaice  Fightin'-man, 

He  aska  heem  "For  why?" 
Da  General  ees  gatta  mad. 

"I  no  can  tal  a  lie," 
82 


DEES  A  GREAT  A  HOLIDAY.  83 

He  say  to  deesa  Fightin'-man, 

"An*  so  I  speaka  true. 
If  you  no  gatta  'way  from  here 

I  tal  you  w'at  I  do. 
I  tie  you  een  a  cherry  tree, 

An'  den  I  tak'  my  knife 
An'  feeda  you  weeth  cherry  pie 

Ees  cooka  by  my  wife!" 
"O!  No!"  ees  say  da  Fightin'-man, 

An'  looka  pretta  seeck, 
"I  notta  wanta  fight  weeth  you. 

I  go  for  home  dees  week." 
Da  Fightin'-man  he  was  so  scare 

He  justa  run  away. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"An'  now,"  ees  say  de  General, 

"We  maka  holiday, 
For  leetla  boys  to  maka  noise 

An'  eata  cake  an'  pie. 
Dees  holiday  will  be  da  one 

We  calla  Fourth-July." 


THE  NATIONAL   ENCAMPMENT. 

He's  a-comin',   he's  a-comin'l 

An'  he  sets  the  town  a-buzz. 
Though  they  ain't  as  many  of  'im 

As  what  they  useter  wuz. 
He's  a-growin'  more  important 

Jest  because  he's  dyin'  out. 
The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin', 

"Hats  off!"  along  the  rout'. 

He's  a-comin',   he's  a-comin' ! 

An'  a  grateful  people  tries 
To  bring  the  light  o'  gladness 

To  the  old-time  fighter's  eyes. 
So  the  old  flag  waves  above  'im, 

An'  he  hears  the  people  shout: 
"The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin', 

Hats  off  along  the  rout'!" 

/ 

He's  a-marchin',  he's  a-marchin'! 

There's  a  reminiscent  touch 
Of  his  bearin'  in  the  "Sixties" 

In  the  way  he  slings  his  crutch, 
As  he  marches  ever  onward 

To  the  last  Great  Muster-out. 
The  G.  A.  R.'s  a-comin'! 

"Hats  off!"  along  the  rout'. 
84 


AT  CASTLE  GARDEN. 

HERE'S  a  whole  ship-load  of  swate  femininity — 

Girls  of  the  Sod! 
Faith!  but  I'm  glad  to  be  in  the  vicinity. 

Here  with  me  hod, 

Mortar  and  bricks  have  engaged  me  this  solid  day. 
O!  but  I  wish  I  was  drissed  fur  a  holiday! 
Wouldn't  I  show  ye  the  taste  of  a  jolly  day, 

Girls  of  the  Sod? 

Let  me  stand  by  in  this  workaday  guise  of  mine, 

Girls  of  the  Sod, 
O!  but  the  sight  of  ye  moistens  these  eyes  of  mine. 

Isn't  it  odd? 

Maybe  the  view  of  yer  solemn  processional 
Out  of  the  ship,  as  it  were  a  confessional, 
Carries  my  heart  in  a  tour  retrogressional 

Back  to  the  Sod. 
85 


86  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN. 

O!  I  am  thinkin'  'twas  jisht  a  mistake  of  ye 

L'avin'  the  Sod. 
All  that  is  best  ye  have  left  in  the  wake  of  ye, 

There  where  ye  trod 

Fields  that  were  full  of  the  swateness  that's  blessin'  ye. 
Fresh  with  the  breezes  so  fon'd  of  caressin'  ye — 
O!  but  there's  many  a  heart  will  be  missin'  ye, 

Girls  of  the  Sod! 

There  ye  reaped  joy  if  ye  only  were  knowin'  it, 

Here  'twill  be  odd 
If  what  ye're  reapin'  will  pay  ye  fur  sowin'  it, 

Girls  of  the  Sod. 

Arrah!    No  wonder  ye're  lookin'  so  serious, 
This  is  a  country  to  make  ye  delirious, 
Toilin'  an*  moilin*  to  serve  the  imperious 

Mammon,  its  god. 

Listen  to  me  an'  I'll  have  the  whole  crowd  of  ye 

Back  to  the  Sod, 
Back  to  the  valleys  that  love  and  are  proud  of  ye, 

Girls  of  the  Sod! 

Ireland  needs  ye,  her  love  that  has  girt  ye  there 
Yearns  fur  ye  still  an'  will  1'ave  nothin'  hurt  ye  there 
Gold  isn't  counted  like  goodness  and  virtue  there, 

Thanks  be  to  God! 


AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  87 

Still  if  there's  wan  of  ye  bent  upon  tarryin', 

Girls  of  the  Sod, 
Did  I  not  mintion  the  merits  o'  marryin' 

I'd  be  a  clod. 

So  if  ye're  needin'  the  love  of  a  merry  man, 
Merry  but  sober,  a  dacint  young  Kerry  man, 
Faith,  I  could  whishper  the  name  of  the  very  man — 

Give  me  a  nod! 


DA  BESTA  FRAND. 

No  keeck  my  dog!     Ha!  don'ta  dare! 

For  jus'  so  queeck  you  do, 
You  Meester  'Merican,  I  swear 

I  brack  your  face  for  you! 
Eh?    Wat?    Well,  den,  dat's  alia  right, 

But  let  my  Carlo  be. 
Escusa  me  for  gat  excite'; 

Com',  look!     1  smila!     See? 
I  want  be  frand  weeth  you,  eef  dat 

You  wanta  be  my  frand, 
But  Carlo  ees  bes'  frand  I  gat 

Een  all  dees  bigga  land, 
An'  he  ees  firsta  'Merican 

For  com'  w'en  I  am  blue 
An'  mak'  me  feela  like  man— 

I  tal  eet  all  to  you. 

W'en  I  am  com'  from  Italy, 

Jus'  landa  from  da  sheep, 
Som'  thief  he  tak'  my  mon'  from  me 

An' — presto! — he  ees  skeep. 
89 


90  DA  BESTA  FRAND. 

An*  w'en  I  find  ees  gon',  O!  my! 

I  scream,  I  pull  my  hair, 
An'  justa  run  aroun'  an'  cry 

Like  crazy  man  an*  swear. 
W'en  com'sa  beeg  poleecaman, 

I  ask,  I  beg  dat  he 
Weell  catcha  thiefa  eef  he  can — 

He  justa  laugh  at  me! 
I  sect  een  street — I  am  so  blue — 

An'  justa  hold  my  head 
An'  theenk  "w'at  am  I  gona  do?" 

An*  weesh  dat  I  am  dead. 
Som'  peopla  com'  an'  look,  but  dey 

Jus*  smile  an"  notta  care; 
So  pretta  soon  dey  gon'  away 

An'  leave  me  seettin*  dere. 
How  long  I  sect  I  no  can  tal; 

I  pray,  I  cry,  I  curse — 
I  bat  you  eef  I  go  to  hal 

I  no  could  feel  more  worse! 
But  while  I  sect  ees  som'theeng  sof 

Dat  touch  my  cheek  an'  w'en 
I  tak'  my  hand  for  brush  eet  off 

Eet  touch  my  cheek  agen. 
I  look.     Ees  justa  Icctla  cur 

Dat  wag  hees  yellow  tail! 
An*  blood  ees  on  hees  yellow  fur, 


DA  BEST  A   PR  AND. 

An'  dere  ees  old  teen  pail 
Tied  on  bayhind.     Poor  leetla  pup! 

But  steell  he  leeck  my  hand, 
As  eef  he  say  to  me:     "Cheer  up! 

I  gona  be  your  frand." 
I  hug  heem  up!     I  am  ashame' 

For  let  heem  see  dat  he 
Ees  justa  dog,  but  alia  same 

Ees  better  man  dan  me. 

So!  dees  ees  Carlo,  Meester  Man; 

I  introduce  to  you, 
Da  true,  da  kinda  'Merican; 

Da  first  I  evva  knew! 


THE  WISDOM  OF  THE  SPARROWS. 

TWAS  a  city  sparrow,  wise  and  debonair, 

Idly  loafing  through  the  country  with  his  mate. 
Stupid  country  birds  were  building  everywhere, 
For  the  nesting-time  was  growing  very  late, 
But  the  sparrow,  with  his  lady, 
In  a  tree-top,  cool  and  shady, 

Gazed  with  scorn  upon  the  work  and  twittered:    "Stuff!" 
To  his  mate  he  chirruped  shrilly: 
"Isn't  all  this  labor  silly, 
When  a  roosting-place  at  night  is  quite  enough?" 

Twas  a  motherly  old  robin,  near  at  hand, 

Who  was  busy  at  her  building  with  the  rest, 
And  she  turned  upon  the  sparrows  to  demand 

How  they  meant  to  hatch  their  eggs  without  a  nest. 
"Such  impertinence!"  half  sadly 
Said  the  sparrow;  "and  yet  gladly 
I'll  impart  to  you  the  knowledge  that  you  beg." 
Then,  with  haughty  condescension, 
He  remarked:     "I  need  but  mention 
That  it's  possible  to  obviate  the  egg." 
*  92 


THE   ll'ISDOM  OF  THE  SPARROWS. 

'Twas  a  congress  of  the  birds  of  every  sort, 

All  indignantly  assembled  to  protest 
Their  displeasure,  when  the  robin  made  report 
Of  the  threatened  abolition  of  the  nest; 

And  they  spoke  of  it  as  "awful!" 

"Selfish,"  "scandalous,"  "unlawful," 
And  they  prophesied  "the  country's  speedy  fall." 

But  the  sparrows,  quite  disdaining 

All  this  ignorant  complaining, 
Simply  went  their  way,  unmindful  of  it  all. 

'Twas  a  sage  old  owl,  a  very  solemn  bird, 

Sat  and  listened  while  his  feathered  fellows  fought. 
Never  once  he  oped  his  mouth  to  say  a  word, 
But  he  did  a  lot  of  thinking — and  he  thought: 

"So  the  sparrows  think  it  best 

To  abolish  eggs  and  nest. 
Well,  perhaps  the  wisdom  isn't  theirs  at  all, 

But  a  plan  of  good  Dame  Nature's 

To  eliminate  such  creatures. 
Let  them  have  their  way;  the  loss  is  mighty  small." 


93 


THE  MODEST  COLLEEN. 

IF  I  should  sing  of  "Mary" 

Don't  think  that  that's  her  name. 
My  colleen  bawn's  conthrary 

And  doesn't  care  for  fame. 
She  sez  'twould  make  her  fidget 

To  see  her  name  in  print, 
So  I  can't  sing  of — Murther! 

I  nearly  gev  a  hint! 

She  likes  to  watch  me  writin* 

A  sonnet  to  her  eyes, 
In  poethry  recitin' 

The  love  that  in  me  lies, 
But  holds  one  rosy  digit, 

Resthrainin'  of  me  pen, 
For  fear  I'll  mintion — Musha! 

I  almost  wrote  it  then. 
04 


THE  MODEST  COLLEEN.  95 

So  whin  the  names  of  Nora, 

An'  Nell  an'  Kate,  betimes, 
Or  Mary,  Rose  or  Dora 

Are  mintioned  in  me  rhymes, 
They  mean  that  modest  midget, 

That  charmin'  little  elf, 
Whose  name  is — O!  I'll  1'ave  ye 

To  guess  her  name  yerself. 


THE  OLD  PARISHIONER. 

THE  graybeard  glories  in  the  past 

Mid  prates  of  "good  old  days." 
These  times  are  out  of  joint,  he  growls, 

And  sneers  at  modern  ways. 
He  shakes  his  head  at  every  move 

That's  up-to-date  and  new, 
And  everything  you  do  is  just 

The  thing  you  shouldn't  do. 
It's:    "Mercy  save  us!    Look  at  that! 

We're  slidin'  back,  I  fear. 
The  parish  isn't  what  it  was 

Whin  Father  Mack  was  here. ' 

"The  weddin's  now  are  not  as  fine 

As  weddin's  used  to  be, 
An',  faith,  they're  not  so  numerous 

At  all,  at  all,"  says  he. 
96 


THE  OLD  PARISHIONER.  97 

"Then,  christ'nin's,  too,  were  plentiful 

An'  carried  out  wid  style; 
'Twould  warm  your  heart  to  see  them  there 

A-crowdin'  up  the  aisle. 
An'  sermons!    How  the  crowds  would  come 

To  listen!     Dear,  O!  dear, 
The  parish  isn't  what  it  was 

Whin  Father  Mack  was  here." 

Yet,  from  a  study  of  the  rolls 

And  records,  'twould  appear 
The  parish  claimed  but  fifty  souls 

When  Father  Mack  was  here. 


LEETLA  GIORGIO  WASHEENTON. 

You  know  w'at  for  ees  school  keep  out 

Dees  holiday,  my  son? 
Wai,  den,  I  gona  tal  you  'bout 

Dees  Giorgio  Washeenton. 

Wai,  Giorgio  was  leetla  keed 

Ees  leeve  long  time  ago, 
An'  he  gon'  school  for  learn  to  read 

An*  write  hees  nam',  you  know. 
He  moocha  like  for  gona  school 

An'  learn  hard  all  day, 
Baycause  he  no  gat  time  for  fool 

Weeth  bada  keeds  an*  play. 
Wai,  wan  cold  day  w'en  Giorgio 

Ees  steell  so  vera  small, 
98 


LEETLA    GIORGIO    WASHEENTON,  99 

He  start  from  home,  but  he  ees  no 

Show  up  een  school  at  all! 
O!  my!  hees  Pop  ees  gatta  mad 

An'  so  he  tal  hees  wife: 
"Som'  leetla  boy  ees  gon'  feel  bad 

To-day,  you  bat  my  life!" 
An'  den  he  grab  a  beega  steeck 

An'  gon'  out  een  da  snow 
An'  lookin'  all  aroun'  for  seek 

Da  leetla  Giorgio. 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk?    Firs'  theeng  he  see 

Where  leetla  boy  he  stan', 
All  tangla  up  een  cherry  tree, 

Weeth  hatchet  een  hees  han'. 
"Ha!  w'at  you  do?"  hees  Pop  he  say, 

"W'at  for  you  busta  rule 
An'  stay  away  like  dees  for  play 

Eenstead  for  gon'  to  school?" 
Da  boy  ees  say:     "I  no  can  lie, 

An'  so  I  speaka  true. 
I  stay  away  from  school  for  try 

An'  gat  som'  wood  for  you. 
I  theenka  deesa  cherry  tree 

Ees  gooda  size  for  chop, 
An'  so  I  cut  heem  down,  you  see, 

For  justa  help  my  Pop." 


100          LEETLA    GIORGIO    WASHEEXTON. 

Hees  Pop  he  no  can  gatta  mad, 
But  looka  please*  an*  say: 

"My  leetla  boy,  I  am  so  glad 
You  taka  holiday." 

Ees  good  for  leetla  boy,  you  see, 

For  be  so  bright  an*  try 
For  help  hees  Pop;  so  den  he  be 

A  granda  man  bimeby. 
So  now  you  gatta  holiday 

An'  eet  ees  good,  you  know, 
For  you  gon'  do  da  sama  way 

Like  leetla  Giorgio. 
Don't  play  so  mooch,  but  justa  stop, 

Eef  you  want  be  som*  good, 
An'  justa  help  your  poor  old  Pop 

By  carry  home  some  wood; 
An'  mebbe  so  like  Giorgio 

You  grow  for  be  so  great 
You  gona  be  da  Presidant 

Of  dese  Unita  State'. 


BALLADE  OF  MODEST  HEROES. 

I  LIKE  the  historical  play 

Whose  action  is  dashing  and  free, 
Whose  hero  is  quick  in  the  fray, 

Yet  modest,  withal;  for,  you  see, 

True  manhood  and  power  should  be 
With  gentleness  bred  in  the  bone. 

Such  traits  appeal  strongly  to  me, 
They  remind  me  so  much  of  my  own. 

I'm  also  quite  willing  to  say 

A  word  for  the  novels,  where  we 
May  read  of  Love's  devious  way, 

And  share  in  its  sorrow  and  glee. 

I'm  right  with  the  lover  when  he 
Has  got  his  coy  sweetheart  alone. 

His  words  are  familiar  to  me, 
They  remind  me  so  much  of  my  own. 

101 


102     BALLADE  OF  MODEST  HEROES. 

And  as  for  the  prints  of  the  day 
Which  spread  over  land,  over  sea, 

Reports  of  all  news  that  they  may, 
From  a  fight  to  a  five  o'clock  tea, 
I'm  fond  of  them  also,  perdie! 

More  deeds  in  their  columns  are  shown 
That  can't  help  appealing  to  me, 

They  remind  me  so  much  of  my  own. 

ENVOY. 
Ye  Writers,  of  every  degree, 

Come,  sit  at  the  foot  of  my  throne. 
Your  heroes'  traits  clamor  to  me, 

They  remind  me  so  much  of  my  own. 


THE  "BUILDING  INSPECTOR." 

WHEN  ground  is  broken  on  the  site 
For  your  new  church,  some  busy  wight 
Is  certain  to  assume  the  right 

To  pose  as  chief  inspector. 
He  deems  it  quite  the  thing  that  he 
Should  represent  the  laity, 
And  watch  the  builder's  work  and  see 

He  doesn't  cheat  the  rector. 

Of  course  the  whole  thing's  badly  plannad, 
He  tells  you,  and  you  understand 
How  good  it  is  that  he's  at  hand 

To  check  some  greater  blunder. 
The  mortar's  bad.     He  breaks  a  crumb 
Between  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
And  shakes  his  head  and  murmurs,  "Bum! 

Who  sold  'em  that,  I  wonder?" 

Thus  after  church  each  Sunday  morn, 
With  mingled  pity,  grief  and  scorn, 
He  goes  about  on  his  forlorn 

Grim  duty  of  inspection. 
But,  no,  not  every  Sunday  though — 
That  statement's  not  exactly  so — 
Some  Sundays  you  take  up,  you  know, 

The  building  fund  collection. 
103 


THE  IRISH  BACHELOR. 

HERE    fur  yer  pity  or  scorn,   I'm  presintin'   ye 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Trustin'  the  life  of  him  will  be  previntin*  ye 

Marrin'  yer  own. 

Think  of  a  face  wid  a  permanint  fixture  of 
Looks  that  are  always  suggistin'  a  mixture  of 
Limmons  an'  vinegar.     There!  ye've  a  pixture  of 

Jerry  McGlone. 

Faix,  there  is  nothin'  but  sourest  gloom  in  this 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Chris'mas  joy,  anny  joy,  niver  finds  room  in  this 

Crayture  of  stone. 

Cynical  gloom  is  the  boast  an'  the  pride  of  him, 
An'  if  a  laugh  iver  did  pierce  the  hide  of  him, 
Faix,  I  belave  'twould  immajiate,  inside  of  him, 

Change  to  a  groan. 
105 


106  THE  IRISH  BACHELOR. 

Whisht!  now,  an*  listen.     I'll  tell  ye  the  throuble  wid 

Jerry  McGlone. 
He  preferred  single  life  rather  than  double  wid 

Molly  Malone. 

Think  of  it!    Think  of  an  Irishman  tarryin* 
While  there's  a  purty  girl  wishful  fur  marryin'! 
Arrah!  no  wonder  the  divils  are  harryin' 

Jerry  McGlone. 

Ah!  but  there's  few  o*  the  race  but  would  scorn  to  be 

Jerry  McGlone. 
Shure,  we  all  know  that  a  Celt  is  not  born  to  be 

Livin'  alone. 

O!  but  we're  grateful  (I  spake  for  the  laity) 
Grateful  fur  women  the  bountiful  Deity 
Dowers  wid  beauty  an*  virtue  an'  gaiety, 

All  for  our  own! 


TO  A  PLAIN  SWEETHEART. 

I  LOVE  thee,  dear,  for  what  thou  art, 
Nor  would  I  wish  thee  otherwise, 

For  when  thy  lashes  lift  apart 
I  read,  deep-mirrored  in  thine  eyes, 

The  glory  of  a  modest  heart. 

Wert  thou  as  fair  as  thou  art  good, 
It  were  not  given  to  any  man, 

With  daring  eyes  of  flesh  and  blood, 
To  look  thee  in  the  face  and  scan 

The  splendor  of  thy  womanhood. 


107 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  NORTH. 

LAST  night  the  winter's  rear-guard  passed 

In  utter  rout  through  lane  and  street; 
With  faint  and  fainter  bugle-blast 

The  North-wind  sounded  the  retreat. 
Far  echoes  of  the  stubborn  flight 

Crept  backward  from  the  distant  hill, 
Stray  stragglers  lurched  across  the  night, 

But  soon  were  gone,  and  all  was  still. 
Then  vaguely,  through  the  pregnant  hush, 

The  murmur  of  a  marching  host 
Surged  swiftly  onward  as  the  rush 

Of  breakers  on  a  level  coast, 
Until  up-swelled  through  lane  and  street, 

In  swift  crescendo  thundering, 
The  drums  of  Southern  rain  that  beat 

Reveille  to  the  waking  Spring. 
1 08 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  NORTH.    109 

O!  glad  gray  army  of  the  South! 

Our  sky  is  your  triumphal  arch. 
Nor  deed  of  arms  nor  word  of  mouth 

Shall  here  oppose  your  onward  march. 
The  little  children  of  the  North, 

Long  captive  to  the  winter's  cold, 
Impatient  yearn  to  sally  forth 

And  tread  the  fields  of  green  and  gold. 
For,  love  of  life  renewed,  we  greet 

With  joy  your  conquest,  welcoming 
Invading  drums  of  rain  that  beat 

Reveille  to  the  waking  Spring. 


A  BOOK  NOT  "GIVABLE." 

.   HAVE  only  poor  words  to  send  you  in  time  for  this 

Christmas  Day; 

My  wonted  gift  of  the  season  must  suffer  a  slight  delay. 
Though  I  had  what  I  felt  would  please  you,  I  find  that  it 

will  not  do, 
And  I  needs  must  wait  till  the  morrow  to  purchase  a 

gitt  for  you. 

I  had  you  in  mind  this  morning.    The  thought  of  you 

bade  me  drop 
My  daily  cares  for  the  moment  and  hie  to  the  bookman's 

shop, 
The  shop  that  we  haunted  so  often,  down  there  in  the 

little  back  street, 
In  the  days  when  we  slaved  together  over  ledger  and 

balance-sheet 

And  squandered  our   hard-earned  pennies  for  an  intel 
lectual  treat. 
You  remember  those  shelves  in  the  corner  where   you 

discovered  your  Burns 
And  I  unearthed  those  treasures  of  Congreve's,  Smollett's 

and  Sterne's? 
Well,  there's  where  I  looked  this  morning  in  search  of  a 

gift  for  you, 

no 


A  BOOK  NOT  "GIVABLE."  \\\ 

And  I  saw  what  I  thought  would  please  you,  but  I  find 
that  it  will  not  do. 

'Twas  the  title,  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer",  that  arrested 

my  roving  eye, 
And  the  make  of  the  volume  pleased  me  and  prompted 

me  to  buy. 

So  I  tucked  it  away  in  my  pocket,  with  only  a  casual  look 
To  the  points  that  are  most   essential  in  a  thoroughly 

"givable"  book. 
But  to-night  in  my  hearthside  leisure,  ere  posting  it  off 

to  you, 
I  imposed  on  myself  the  duty  to  examine  it  through  and 

through. 
I  was  rather  shocked  at  the  cover,  and  vexed  that  I  had 

not  seen 
How  the  russet  calf  was  mottled  with  mildew-spots  of 

green. 

Then  the  title-page  is  rather  a  trifle  the  worse  for  wear, 
And  it  really  cost  me  an  effort  to  read  the  announcement 

there 
That  the  book  was  "printed  for  Griffiths,"  and  the  smaller 

line  below: 

"To  be  had  of  Timothy  Becket  in  Paternoster  Row." 
I  discover  the  date  of  the  printing  is  1774. 
Was  it  after  the  author's  exit,  I  wonder,  or  before? 
The  thought  that  this  book  had  being  in  the  very  year  of 

his  death, 


112  A  BOOK  NOT  "Gll/ABLE." 

Perhaps   in   the   very   hour   that   claimed   his   departing 

breath, 

Iv'akes  misty  the  reader's  vision  and  carries  the  fancy  back 
To  the  times  and  the  haunts  of  the  genius,  poet  and  book 
man's  hack. 

What  phantasies,  sweet  and  tender,  out  of  that  golden  age, 
March  by  in  the  time-dimmed  type  of  the  quaintly  printed 
page! 

But,  pshaw!  I  am  boring  you,  surely,  with  this  sort  of 

folderol; 
You  never  were  partial  as  I  am  to  "poor  old  lovable 

Noll." 
The  book's  well  enough  in  its  fashion,  but  it  wouldn't  be 

proper  to  send 
A  thing — well — so  battered  and  shabby  as  a  holiday  gift 

to  a  friend. 

As  I  told  you,  the  old  leather  cover  is  very  much  mil 
dewed  and  worn, 

And  a  few  of  the  pages  are  dog-eared  and  others  are  torn. 
I  thought  at  first  sight  it  would  please  you,  bujt  I  find  that 

it  will  not  do, 
So  I  needs  must  wait  till  the  morrow  to  purchase  a  gift 

for  you. 
I've  only  "God-bless-you"  to  send  you  in  time  for  this 

Christmas  Day, 
But  my  wonted  gift  of  the  season  will  follow.    Forgive 

the  delay. 


DA  MUSICA  MAN. 

You  knowa  Giovanni,  da  musica  man? 

He  playa  da  harpa,  he  playa  pian', 

For  maka  da  mona  wherevra  he  can. 

Da  styleesha  peopla  dey  geeve  heem  da  chance 

For  maka  da  music  for  helpa  dem  dance. 

He  playa  da  music  so  gooda,  so  gran', 
He  tal  me,  da  ladies  dey  calla  heem  "sweet" 
An'  geeve  heem  da  playnta  good  fooda  for  eat. 

I  like  be  Giovanni,  da  musica  man. 

Giovanni,  da  musica  man,  he  ees  fat, 
An'  sleepy  an"  lazy  so  lika  da  cat, 
So  moocha  da  dreenkin'  an*  eatin'  he  gat. 
I  gotta  da  music  eensida  my  heart; 
I  weesh  I  have  also  da  musical  art 

For  mak'  eet  com'  outa  my  heart  like  he  can, 
An'  filla  my  stomach  weeth  fooda  for  eat. 
I  digga  da  tranch;  I  work  hard  on  da  street — 

I  like  be  Giovanni,  da  musica  man. 


THE  "MODERATE  DRINKER." 

I  HONOR  more  the  merry  wight 
Who,  though  he  curbs  his  appetite, 

Still  takes  a  social  beaker, 
Than  any  Prohibition  crank 
Who  prates  about  the  "water-tank." 

I  hate  a  temperance  speaker. 

So,  come,  lift  up  a  brimming  cup 

To  all  who've  wit  to  use  it. 
And  let  it  be  our  boast  that  we 

May  use  but  not  abuse  it. 

Kind  Nature  brings  her  gift  of  wine 

That  Thought  may  glow,  that  Wit  may  shine, 

And  shall  we  then  reject  her? 
'Tis  true  the  sodden  sot's  a  beast, 
But  he's  a  death's-head  at  the  feast 

Who  will  not  touch  the  nectar. 
114 


THE  MODERATE  DRINKER.  115 

Once  more!     Lift  up  a  brimming  cup 

To  all  who've  wit  to  use  it. 
And  let  it  be  our  boast  that  we 

May  use  but  not  abuse  it. 

What  need  to  men  of  common  sense 
Is  any  "total  abstinence"? 

There's  shimply  nothin'  to  it. 
What  harm  to  use  th'  good  ole  stuff 
If  you  (hie)  shtop  when  you've  enough? 
That'sh  way  that  I  (hie)  do  it. 

Whoopla!  fill  up  a  brimmin'  cup 

To  all  (hie)  wit  t'  ushe  it. 
(Hie)  let  (hie)  be  ou'  boash  (hie)  we 

(Wow!!)  ushe  (whoop!)  not  (hie)  'buzhe  it. 


DA   'MERICANA   GIRL. 

I  GATTA  mash  weeth  Mag  McCue, 
An'  she  ees  "Mericana,  too! 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk?     Now,  mcbbe  so, 
You  w cell  no  calla  me  so  slow 
Eef  som'  time  you  can  looka  see 
How  she  ees  com'  an'  flirt  weeth  me. 
Most  evra  two,  t'ree  day,  my  frand, 
She  stop  by  dees  pcanutta-stand 
An'  smile  an'  mak'  da  googla-eye 
An'  justa  look  at  me  an'  sigh. 
An*  alia  time  she  so  excite' 
She  peeck  som'  fruit  an'  taka  bite. 
O!  my,  she  eesa  look  so  sweet 
I  no  care  how  much  fruit  she  cat. 
Me?    I  am  cool  an*  mak'  pretand 
I  want  no  more  dan  be  her  frand; 
But  een  my  heart,  you  bat  my  life, 
I  theenk  of  her  for  be  my  wife. 
116 


t  DA  'M  ERIC  AN  A  GIRL. 

To-day  I  theenk:     "Now  I  weell  see 
How  moocha  she  ees  mash  weeth  me," 
An'  so  I  speak  of  dees  an'  dat, 
How  moocha  playnta  mon'  I  gat, 
How  mooch  I  makin'  evra  day 
An'  w'at  I  spand  an'  put  away. 
An'  den  I  ask,  so  queeck,  so  sly: 
"You  theenk  som'  pretta  girl  weell  try 
For  lovin'  me  a  leetla  beet?" — 
O!  my!  she  eesa  blush  so  sweet! — 
"An*  eef  I  ask  her  lika  dees 
For  geevin'  me  a  leetla  keess, 
You  s'pose  she  geeve  me  wan  or  two?" 
She  tal  me:     "Twanty-t'ree  for  you!" 
An'  den  she  laugh  so  sweet,  an'  say: 
"Skeeddoo!     Skeeddoo!"  an'  run  away. 

She  like  so  mooch  for  keessa  me 

She  gona  geeve  me  twanty-t'ree! 

I  s'pose  dat  w'at  she  say — "skeeddoo" — 

Ees  alia  same  "I  lova  you." 

Ha!  w'at  you  theenk?     Now,  mebbe  so 

You  weell  no  calla  me  so  slow! 


FAINT  HEART. 

I  WONDER  if  she  knows  how  much 
My  heart  cries  out  for  her  dear  heart. 

I  wonder  if  she's  felt  the  touch, 
The  joyous  thrill,  the  bitter  smart 
Of  Cupid's  dart. 

I  wonder. 

I  wonder  what  she'll  say  to  me 
When  I  have  told  my  tale  to-night. 

O!  will  it  be  my  fate  to  be 
Transported  to  the  sun-kissed  height 
Of  sheer  delight? 

I  wonder. 

I  wonder  if  I'll  tell  my  tale 
At  all!    I've  often  tried  before. 

By  Jove!     I  feel  my  courage  fail, 
And  here,  a  timid  mouse  once  more, 
On  past  her  door 
I  wander. 


DA  LEETLA  BOY. 

DA  spreeng  ees  com';  but  O!  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 

I  no  can  count  how  many  week, 
How  many  day,  dat  he  ees  seeck; 
How  many  night  I  sect  an'  hold 
Da  leetla  hand  dat  was  so  cold. 
He  was  so  patience,  O!  so  sweet! 
Eet  hurts  my  throat  for  theenk  of  eet; 
An'  all  he  evra  ask  ees  w'en 
Ees  gona  com'  da  spreeng  agen. 
Wan  day,  wan  brighta  sunny  day, 
He  see,  across  da  alleyway, 
Da  leetla  girl  dat's  livin'  dere 
Ees  raise  her  window  for  da  air, 
An'  put  outside  a  leetla  pot 
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 
So  smalla  flower,  so  leetla  theeng! 
But  steell  eet  mak*  hees  hearta  sing: 
"O!  now,  at  las',  ees  com'  da  spreeng! 
119 


DA  LEETLA   BOY.  121 

Da  leetla  plant  ees  glad  for  know 
Da  sun  ees  com'  for  mak'  eet  grow. 
So,  too,  I  am  grow  warm  and  strong." 
So,  lika  dat  he  seeng  hees  song. 
But,  ah!  da  night  com'  down  an'  den 
Da  weenter  ees  sneak  back  agen, 
An'  een  da  alley  all  da  night 
Ees  fall  da  snow,  so  cold,  so  white, 
An'  cover  up  da  leetla  pot 
Of — w'at-you-call? — forgat-me-not. 
All  night  da  leetla  hand  I  hold 
Ees  grow  so  cold,  so  cold,  so  cold! 

Da  spreeng  ees  com';  but  O!  da  joy 

Eet  ees  too  late! 
He  was  so  cold,  my  leetla  boy, 

He  no  could  wait. 


BALLADE  OF  FAMILY  NAMES. 

CHANGE  is  the  order  in  man's  estate, 

Times  have  changed  and  the  customs,  too; 
Everything  now  must  be  up-to-date, 

Things  old-fashioned  will  never  do. 

Even  the  names  that  our  fathers  knew — 
Jonas,  Zachary,  Zebedee — 

Fashion  adjures  us  we  must  eschew. 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 

Patronymics  with  frills  ornate, 

Out  of  the  roots  of  the  old  names  grew. 
"Kathryn"  cooed  in  the  arms  of  "Kate," 

"Hugo"  lisped  at  the  knees  of  "Hugh." 

Nursery  walls  of  the  wealthy  few 
Rang  with  titles  of  high  degree, 

All  affecting  the  blood  that's  blue — 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 
122 


BALLADE  OF  FAMILY  NAMES.  123 

Greater  changes  have  come  of  late; 

Even  these  new  names  fade  from  view. 
Wife  and  husband  no  more  debate 

Titles  fitting  their  infant  crew. 

Even  the  infants  lie  perdue. 
"Fido,"  "Rover"  and  "Tige"— Ah!  me, 

These  are  the  names  that  the  maids  halloo. 
What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 

ENVOY. 
Man,  it  is  sad,  but  alas!  it's  true, 

Fashion's  killing  your  family  tree. 
If  but  a  little  bark's  left  to  you. 

What  will  the  names  of  To-morrow  be? 


DA   STYLEESHA   LADY. 

I  TAL  you  w'at,  you  oughta  see 
Carlotta,  dat's  my  girl,  w'en  she 
Ees  feex'  for  holiday.    I  guess 
You  nevva  see  sooch  styleeshness. 
She  gotta  yallow  seelka  skirt 
Ees  look  so  fine  you  theenk  ees  wort* 
'Bout  twanty  dollar,  mebbe  more, 
Eef  you  gon'  buy  eet  een  da  store. 
So,  too,  she  gotta  purpla  wais' 
Dat's  treem'  weeth  pretta  yallow  lace, 
An'  beega  golda  breasta-peen 
Ees  steeckin'  ondraneat'  her  cheen. 
Eh?    Wait,  my  frand!     On  toppa  dat 
She  got  da  beega  redda  hat 
Weeth  coupla  featha,  brighta  green, 
An'  whita  rosa  een  baytween. 
Da  redda,  whita,  green,  you  see, 
Ees  lika  flag  of  Italy! 
124 


DA  STYLEESHA  LADY,  125 

Ha!  w'at  you  theenka  dat  for  style? 
Ah!  yes,  my  frand,  eet  mak'  you  smile; 
You  can  eemagine,  den,  of  me, 
How  proud  I  smile  w'en  first  I  see. 
You  can  baylieve  how  proud  I  feel 
For  walkin'  out  weeth  her;  but  steell 
I  gatta — w'at  you  call — "deestress" 
Baycause  for  all  dees  styleeshness. 
You  see,  w'en  she  ees  look  so  sweet 
I  'fraid  for  let  her  on  da  street. 
I  justa  feela  scare'  dat  som' 
Beeg  reecha  man  ees  gona  com' 
An'  see  how  styleesh  she  can  be, 
An'  steala  her  away  from  me. 


ALMOST. 

•*THERE  stands  the  parson's  house,"  he  said. 
The  maiden  hung  her  modest  head, 
Lest  he  who  thus  was  moved  to  speak 
Should  note  the  blush  that  dyed  her  cheek. 
The  moonlit  fields,  the  sky  above, 
Were  mutely  eloquent  of  love; 
And  love  surcharged  the  ambient  air 
Breathed  in  by  this  young  rustic  pair. 
With  beating  hearts,  across  the  road, 
They  saw  the  minister's  abode. 
The  study  lamp  a  welcome  gleamed, 
And,  through  the  summer  twilight,  seemed 
Inviting  them  to  near  the  door. 
"There  stands  the  parson's  house!*'     Once  more 
His  fervid  thoughts  broke  forth  in  speech. 
Then  silence,  thrilling  each  to  each, 
Surrounded  them  and  held  them  mute. 
Far-off  they  heard  an  owlet  hoot 
ia6 


ALMOST.  127 

"To  whit!  to  woo!"     The  maiden's  heart 

Was  warm  for  him,  but  hers  the  part 

To  modestly  await  the  word 

That  she  in  fancy  oft  had  heard, 

And  which,  instinctively  she  knew, 

Was  trembling  on  his  tongue.     He,  too, 

Was  conscious  of  his  own  love's  strength, 

And  meant  to  speak.     He  said,  at  length: 

"There  stands  the  parson's  house,  and  there — " 

His  hand  a-tremble  cleft  the  air — 

"Is  where  it  used  to  stand!"     And  then 

He  led  her  down  the  road  again. 


CAREY,  THE  KILL-JOY. 

IF  yc  iver  see  Timothy  Carey 

Jisht  trust  to  the^speed  o'  ycr  heels. 
Take  warnin'  from  Malachy  Cleary — 

That's  me,  an'  I  know  how  it  teeis. 
If  ye're  bint  on  rcvivin'  yer  nature 

Wid  innocint  pleasure,  me  boy, 
Get  out  o'  the  way  o*  this  crayture — 

His  thrade  is  the  killin*  o*  joy. 

Now,  wan  day  whin  I  sat  at  me  dinner, 

Wid  hunger  enough  an'  to  spare, 
In  walks  this  same  gloomy  ould  sinner 

An'  leans  on  the  back  o'  me  chair. 
"Come  an'  jine  me,"  sez  I;  "I'd  be  hatin' 

Mesel'  fur  the  glutton  I  am 
To  deny  ye  this  taste  o*  good  'atin* — 

'Tis  luscious  b'iled  cabbage  an*  ham!" 
"Man  alive!  are  ye  crazy?"  sez  Carey, 

An1  frowns  in  his  soberest  way, 
128 


CAREY,   THE  KILL- JOY.  129 

"Shure  an'  have  ye  furgot,  Misther  Cleary, 

That  this  is  a  fasht-day  th'-day?" 
An'  wid  that  the  ould  joy-killin'  sinner 

Jisht  turned  on  his  heel  an'  wint  out, 
An'  he  left  me  me  illigant  dinner 

Like  ashes,  stone-cowld,  in  me  mout'. 

'Twas  a  sin  o'  me,  bein'  forgetful; 

I  should  have  remimbered  the  day, 
But  I  couldn't  help  feelin'  regretful 

To  see  me  feast  fadin'  away; 
For  'twas  not  for  me  soul's  sake  that  Carey 

Shpoke  up,  but  'twas  jisht  to  annoy. 
'Tis  his  nature  that's  mane  an'  conthrary — 

His  thrade  is  the  killin'  o'  joy. 


A  LESSON  IN  POLITICS. 

I  NO  care  for  gattin'  mcex' 

Een  decs  Ceety  politeecs. 

I  no  gatta  vote,  an'  so 

I  no  weeshin'  mooch  to  know 

W'eech  side  right  an'  w'eech  side  wrong; 

I  no  bother  mooch  so  long 

Dey  no  bother  mooch  weeth  me — 

I  jus*  want  do  beez'ness,  see? 

I  no  like  poleecaman 
Com'  to  dees  peanutta-stan', 
Like  he  do  most  evra  day, 
Jus*  for  talka  deesa  way: 
"Wai,  my  frand,  I  tal  you  w'at. 
Politeecs  ees  gattin'  hot. 
Don't  you  mind  all  deesa  queer 
Talka  'bout  da  'Graft'  you  hear. 
Notheeng  een  eet!"     (Here  he  tak' 
Bigga  pieca  geenger  cak'.) 
"Dees  'Reforma'  mak*  me  seeck! 
Sucha  foolish  theengs  dey  speak  1 
130 


A  LESSON  IN  POLITICS.  131 

All  dees  'graft'  ees  een  deir  eye." 
(Now  he  taka  pieca  pie.) 
"I  been  een  dees  politeecs 
Seexa  year  an'  know  da  treecks, 
But  I  tal  you  I  ain't  met 
Any  kinda   grafta  yet." 
(Here  he  taka  two  banan'.) 
"Evra  publeec  office  man 
Worka  for  a  salary 
Jus'  da  sama  lika  me. 
We  no  want  no  more  dan  dat— 
Jus'  contant  weeth  w'at  we  gat." 
(Den  he  tak'  weeth  botha  hand 
Som'  peanutta,)     "So,  my  frand, 
Don't  baylieva  all  dees  queer 
Talka  'bouta  'graft'  you  hear." 

Nutta,  caka,  pie,  banan', 
All  for  wan  poleecaman! 
Mebbe  ees  no  "grafta" — say! 
W'at  ees  "grafta,"  anyway? 


MISTLETOE  AND  HOLLY. 

THE  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 

Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 
Remember,  all  ye  modest  girls, 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls, 
And  when  it  hangs  above  your  curls, 

Away  with  melancholy! 
The  mistletoe  is  gemmed  with  pearls. 
Red  berries  hath  the  holly. 

Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find, 

We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 
O!  do,  I  beg  of  you,  be  kind; 
Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find, 
Pretend  that  you  are  color-blind 

And  kiss  beneath  this  holly. 
Since  mistletoe  is  hard  to  find, 

We  do  not  need  it,  Mollie. 


132 


THE  IRISH   NATIONAL  BIRD. 

GOOD  luck  to  the  Aigle,  America's  bird, 

That  stands  for  the  land  o'  the  free! 
Faix,  I'm  not  the  wan  to  be  sayin'  a  word 

That'd  ruffle  its  feathers.     Not  me! 
I'm  proud  o'  the  bird  as  I'm  proud  o'  the  land, 

An'  glad  to  be  under  its  wing, 
But  there  is  another  bird  aiqually  grand 

Whose  praises  I'm  wishful  to  sing. 
Now  let  ye  not  pucker  yer  face  wid  a  smile, 

Tis  soberest  truth  that  we've  got 
A  national  bird  in  the  Emerald  Isle 

That's  aisily  king  o'  the  lot! 

Aye!  "national  bird."     He  is  certainly  that. 

Though  others  may  claim  him  at  times, 
He's  busiest  most  wid  the  fortunes  of  Pat 

At  home  an'  in  far-away  climes. 
An',  faix,  'tis  the  Irish  that  love  him  the  best 

An'  welcome  his  favors  the  most; 
The  man's  not  true  Irish  that  has  him  for  guest 

Widout  feelin'  proud  to  be  host. 
He  seeks  out  the  Irish  raygardless  of  place — 

At  home  or  abroad  in  New  York — 
So  here's  to  the  National  Bird  of  the  Race! 

Here's  "hip,  hip,  hurrah!"  for  the  stork! 
133 


HANDICAPPED. 

EEF  I  could  talka  'Merican 
Like  w'at  I  can  Italian, 
So  stronga  langwadpc  pot  would  be 
You  would  be  scare*  for  joke  wcetb  me. 
U4 


HANDICAPPED. 

Een  Italy  I  am  so  queeck 

For  theenk  of  sassy  theengs  to  speak, 

Wen  som'  wan  makin'  fun  weeth  me, 

Dat  nexta  time  dey  let  me  be. 

Da  profcssori  from  da  school 

Som'  time  was  try  for  mak'  me  fool; 

Ah!  wal,  dey  find,  you  bat  my  life, 

My  tongue  ees  sharpa  like  da  knife. 

So,  evra  wan  was  'fraid  weeth  me 

Wen  I  am  home,  een  Napoli. 

But  een  New  Yorka  Ceety  here 

Ees  deefferant;  an'  eet  ees  queer! 

Da  streeta  keed,  so  tough,  so  small, 

He  ees  no  scare'  weeth  me  at  all. 

He  talk  to  me  so  sharp,  so  queeck 

My  tongue  ees  gat  too  twist'  for  speak; 

He  mak'  da  face  an'  laugh,  an'  den 

Ees  gat  me  tangla  up  agen. 

Wen  he  ees  two,  t'ree  blocks  away, 

I  theenk  of  som'theeng  sharp  to  say 

Dat  mak'  heem  stop  from  be  so  tough 

Eef  I  have  say  eet  queeck  enough. 

Wal,  mebbe  eet  ees  better  so, 
Baycause  ecf  sucha  keed  could  know 
How  sharpa  tongue  ees  een  my  head 
He  be  so  scare'  he  droppa  dead! 


BALLADE  OF  THE  POOR  TOURIST. 

AT  home  or  in  far-away  climes, 

Wherever  the  tourist  may  stray, 
He  must  look  to  his  quarters  and  dimes 

To  keep  them  from  melting  away. 

One  hates  to  appear  like  a  jay, 
So  into  his  pocket  he  dips, 

Such  scorn  do  the  servants  display 
For  the  fellow  who  never  gives  tips. 

The  magnate,  the  maker  of  rhymes, 

The  "poor  devil  author,"  and  they 
Whose  money-bags  jingle  like  chimes, 

Are  marked  as  legitimate  prey. 

Have  little  or  much  as  you  may, 
The  food  and  drink  passing  your  lips 

Claim  toll.     O!  the  outlook  is  gray 
For  the  fellow  who  never  gives  tips. 
136 


BALLADE  OF  THE  POOR  TOURIST.    137 

We  need  a  reformer  at  times, 

A  man  of  true  courage,  to  stay 
Society's  foibles  and  crimes, 

And  keep  us  from  getting  too  gay; 

One  needs  to  be  brave  to  say  "Nay" 
To  the  porter  who  handles  his  grips, 

So  there  really  is  something  to  say 
For  the  fellow  who  never  gives  tips. 

ENVOY. 

Good  Fellows!     We  grumble,  but  pay, 

Like  lords,  for  our  holiday  trips. 
But  come,  let  us  twine  a  bouquet 

For  the  fellow  who  never  gives  tips. 


THE  FIGHTING  RACE. 

I'VE  been  readin*  the  papers 

And  watchin'  the  capers 
Of  Russian  and  Jap  on  the  land  and  the  sea. 

And  it's  got  me  to  guessin' 

Why  some  names  is  missin' 
That  should  be  conspickyus  where  fightin's  so  t 

Shure!  where  are  the  Reillys, 

The  Caseys  and  Kileys, 
And  all  of  the  rest  of  the  Macs  and  the  O's? 

There  was  never  real  fightin' 

Or  wrongs  to  be  rightin* 
But  some  o'  thim  byes  'd  be  strikin'  their  blows. 

Now  the  longer  I  ponder 

The  struggle  out  yonder, 
Where  the  Jap  and  the  Russian  are  flirtin'  wid  Fame, 

The  more  I'm  decidin' 

The  Irishman's  hidin* 
Behind  the  quare  front  of  a  haythenish  name. 

If  ye  read  of  "Patriski" 

Or  "Michelkomiski" 
Ye  will  know  they're  not  Russian  at  all,  if  ye're  wise, 

And  the  Jap  "Tomohara" 

Or  "Teddimagara" 

Are  simply  good  Connaught  men  there  in  disguise. 
138 


PADRE  DOMINEEC. 

PADRE  Domineec  McCann 
He  ees  great  beeg  Irish  man. 

He  ees  growla  w'en  he  speak, 
Like  he  gona  go  for  you 
Jus'  for  busta  you  in  two. 

My!  he  talk  so  rough,  so  queeck, 
You  weell  weesha  you  could  be 
Som'where  elsa  w'en  you  see 

Padre  Domineec. 

Padre  Domineec  McCann 
Stop  at  dees  peanutta-stan' 

W'en  my  leetla  boy  ees  seeck; 
Talk  so  rough  he  mak'  me  cry, 
Say  ees  besta  boy  should  die 

So  he  go  to  Heaven  queeck! 
He  ees  speak  so  cold  to  me 
Nevva  more  I  wanta  see 

Padre  Domineec. 
139 


140 


PADRE  DOMINEEC. 

Den  gran*  doctor  com'.    Ees  queer! 
Wen  I  ask  who  sand  heem  here, 

He  jus'  smile  an*  weell  no  speak 
Only  justa  for  to  say: 
"You  no  gotta  cent  to  pay, 

I  gon'  feex  dees  boy  dat's  seeck." 
O!  beeg-hearta  man,  an'  true! 
I  am  gattin'  on  to  you, 

Padre  Domineec! 


A  FANCY   NICOTIAN. 

TIME  was,  my  love,  ere  you  came  as  queen 

To  this  bachelor  heart  of  mine, 
I  bowed  to  the  princess  of  Nicotine, 

Who  dwelt  in  an  amber  shrine. 
And  there,  when  I  willed,  her  heart  glowed  red 

And  her  languorous  spirit  rose, 
And  my  soul  followed  where  her  soul  led, 

Away  from  the  world  of  prose, 
To  a  world  rerisen  from  out  of  the  shade 

Of  ages  passing  belief, 
Where  she  was  again  a  Delaware  maid 

And  I  was  a  Huron  chief. 


* 
141 


142 


A  FANCY  NICOTIAN. 

I  had  made  a  journey  to  seek  her  hand, 

I  had  come  from  the  inland  seas, 
Far  down  to  the  Big  Salt  Water's  strand 

Where  clustered  her  tribe's  tepees. 
And  thither  I  brought  a  hundred  pelts 

Of  the  beasts  my  arm  had  slain, 
And  beaded  garments  and  wampum  belts, 

That  my  love-quest  be  not  vain. 
Then  her  people  said:     "It  is  meet  indeed! 

The  eagle  shall  mate  with  the  dove." 
O!  their  little  hearts  they  were  drunk  with  greed, 

But  hers  was  big  with  love. 

When  into  my  hand  she  slipped  her  own, 

And  our  souls  thrilled  each  to  each, 
My  full  heart  clogged  my  throat  like  a  stone 

And  robbed  my  tongue  of  speech. 
But  faith  burns  fervid  and  hope  is  high 

In  the  heart  of  a  loving  maid, 
Ami  reading  but  joy  in  her  lover's  eye 

She  follows  him,  unafraid. 
Beasts  of  the  forest  there  were,  and  men, 

To  harry  our  path  with  strife. 
But  her  love  gave  me  the  strength  of  ten. 

We  were  masters  of  love  and  life. 


A  FANCY  NICOTIAN.  143 

All  this,  my  love,  was  before  you  came 

To   brighten  this  life  of  mine. 
But  still  I  dream  when  the  touch  of  flame 

Enkindles  that  amber  shrine; 
And  the  fragrant  spirit  of  Nicotine, 

In  circles  my  head  above, 
Discloses  ever  the  self-same  scene, 

The  picture  of  world-old  love, 
That  world  rerisen  trom  out  of  the  shade 

Of  ages  passing  belief; 
But  now  it  is  than  art  the  Delaware  maid 

When  I  am  the  Huron  chief. 


UN    LAZZARONE. 

So  lazy  man  I  nevva  see 
Like  Joe  Baratt'  een  Napoli. 
You  no  could  mak'  heem  work  at  all; 
Een  Napoli  he  w'at  you  call 
"Un  lazzarone";  dat'sa  "bum." 
No  crotta  job,  no  gotta  home, 
No  gotta  weesh  for  maka  mon', 
But  jus'  for  seetin'  een  da  sun. 
So  lazy,  good-for-notheeng,  O! 
Da  worsta  wan  ees  decsa  Joe. 
You  say  "Gelato,  Joe?"  to  heem — 
"Gelato"  ees  da  same  "ice-cream" — 
He  ope'  hees  eyes  a  leetla  beet 
Baycause  he  ees  so  fond  of  eet, 
An"  den  he  ope'  hees  mout'  so  wide 
An'  wait  for  you  to  put  eenside. 
He  weell  no  tak"  da  dcesh  of  cream. 
But  so  you  gona  feeda  heem! 
So  lazy  man  I  nevva  see 

Like  Joe  Baratt'  een  Napoli  1 
144 


UN  LAZZARONE.  145 

I  no  can  tal  how  eet  should  be, 

But  deesa  Joe  he  cross  da  sea 

An'  com'  Noo  York  las'  Fall,  vou  know, 

Wen  «vratheeng  ees  ice  an'  snow. 

Ees  nevva  so  disgusta  man 

Like  Joe  Baratt'  w'en  he  ees  Ian'. 

O!  my!  he  sheerer,  shake  an'  sneeze, 

An'  he  mus'  dance  for  keep  from  freeze. 

So  lively  man  I  nevva  see 

Like  Joe  Baratt'  from  Napoli! 

An'  now  he  work  for  stevedore 

Like  w'at  he  nevva  do  bayfore, 

Baycatise  he  needa  mon',  so  he 

Can  gat  back  home  een  Napoli, 

For  sleepin'  een  da  sunshine  w'en 

Da  weenter-time  ees  com'  agen. 

So  lively  man  you  nevva  see 

Like  Joe  Baratt'  from  Napoli. 


BEDFELLOWS. 

AIN'T  no  one  so  glad  as  me 
When  they's  lady-company 
Comes  to  visit  us  an'  stay 
All  that  night  until  it's  day. 
Ain't  much  sleepin'-room  at  all 
In  our  house — it's  made  so  small- 
But  my  Pa  he'll  always  'low 
We  kin  "double-up  somehow." 
'Nen  when  all  my  prayers  is  said 
Ma  she  tucks  me  into  bed 
'Way  'way  over  on  one  side. 
'Nen  I  feel  real  satisfied 
To  be  sleepy  an'  to  go 
Right  spang  off,  because  I  know 
When  I  wake  fust  thing  I'll  see 
Will  be  Pa  in  bed  with  me. 
146 


BEDFELLOWS.  147 

'Nen  for  fun!    I  tell  you  what, 
'At's  the  time  I  have  a  lot. 
I  jist  crawl  on  Pa  an'  shake 
His  ole  head  till  he's  awake. 
Fust  he'll  lay  real  still  an'  play 
He's  asleep  an'  goin'  to  stay. 
'Nen  he'll  raise  up  in  the  air, 
Growl  an'  cut  up  like  a  bear 
Come  to  eat  me  up,  an'  I 
Laugh  an'  squeal  an'  yell.     O  my! 
We  jist  run  things,  me  an'  Pa, 
Havin'  lots  o'  fun,  till  Ma, 
In  the  next  room,  sez:     "You  boys 
Best  git  dressed  an'  quit  that  noise." 
I  wisht  every  night  'at  we 
Might  have  lady-company. 


THOSE  DIRTY  LITTLE  FINGERS. 

FROM  the  moment  he  could  stand  alone  and  toddle 

Across  the  bed-room  floor  from  chair  to  chair, 
There  was  never  any  respite  for  his  mother; 

He  was  getting  into  mischief  everywhere. 
There  were  somersaults  distracting  down  the  stairway, 

And  tumbles  off  the  sofa,  to  be  sure, 
And  the  bumps  he  gpt  were  really  quite  terrific, 

'But  none  a  mother's  kisses  couldn't  cure. 
He'd  a  most  plebeian  fondness  for  the  kitchen, 

Whose  precincts  were  his  favorite  retreat, 
And  the  coal-hod  held  for  him  a  fascination, 

For  he  seemed  to  think  its  contents  good  to  eat. 
But  the  thing  that  caused  his  mother's  greatest  worry, 

And  made  her  ply  her  house-cloth  o'er  and  o'er, 
Was  his  subsequent  invasion  of  the  parlor 

With  his  grimy  little  fingers  on  the  door. 
148 


THOSE  DIRTY  LITTLE  FINGERS.  149 

How  the  whiteness  of  the  paint  was  desecrated 

By  those  dirty  little  digits  every  day; 
Though  his  weary  mother  wept  and  begged  and  scolded 

He  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  his  way. 
It  was  evident  that  he  was  only  happy 

When  his  fingers  held  their  share    and  more  of  dirt; 
And  the  only  thing  he  loathed  was  soap  and  water, 

And  O!  my  goodness  gracious!  how  that  hurt. 
But  it  hurts  us  now  to  contemplate  the  cleanness 

Of  everything  about  this  quiet  place; 
All  the  finger-marks  that  used  to  mar  the  wood-work 

Have  disappeared,  nor  left  the  slightest  trace. 
For  the  last  of  them  were  wiped  away  last  summer, 

Glad  summer  that  is  gone  forevermore! 
We  are  lonely,  Lord,  and  hungering  to  see  him, 

With  his  grimy  little  fingers  on  the  door. 


V/.- 


DA   YOUNGA   'MERICAN. 

I,   MYSAL',   I   feela   strange 

Een  dees  countra.     I  can  no 
Mak'  mysal'  agen  an'  change 

Eento  'Merican,  an'  so 
I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 

Justa  "dumb  ole  Dago  man." 
Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 

Smarta  younga  'Merican. 
Twalv'  year  ole!  but  alia  same 

He  ees  learna  soocha  lot 
He  can  read  an'  write  hees  name — 

Smarta  keed?     I  tal  you  w'at! 

He  no  talk  Italian; 

He  say:     "Dat's  for  Dagoes  speak, 
I  am  younga  'Merican, 

Dago  langwadge  mak'  me  seeck." 
Eef  you  gona  tal  heem,  too, 

He  ees  "leetla  Dago,"  my! 
He  ees  gat  so  mad  weeth  you 

He  gon'  ponch  you  een  da  eye. 


1 52  DA  YOUNG  A  'M  ERIC  AN. 

Mebbe  so  you  gona  mak' 

Fool  weeth  heem — an'  mebbe  not. 
Queeck  as  flash  he  sass  you  back; 

Smarta  keed?    I  tal  you  w'at! 

He  ees  moocha  'shame'  for  be 

Mcexa  weeth  Italian; 
He  ees  moocha  'shame'  of  me — 

I  am  dumb  ole  Dago  man. 
Evra  time  w'en  I  go  out 

Weetha  heem  I  no  can  speak 
To  som'body.     "Shut  your  mout'." 

He  weell  tal  me  pretta  queeck, 
"You  weell  gceve  yoursal'  away 

Talkin'  Dago  lika  dat; 
Try  be  "Merican,"  he  say — 

Smarta  keed?    I  tal  you  w'at! 

I  am  w'at  you  calla  me, 
Justa  "dumb  ole  Dago  man;" 

Alia  same  my  boy  ees  be 
Smarta  younga  'Merican. 


NIGHT  IN  BACHELOR'S  HALL. 

THEY'VE  gone  away!     It  seems  a  year, 
Aye!  weeks  of  years,  since  they  were  here; 
And  yet  it  was  but  yesterday 
I  kissed  them  when  they  went  away, 
Away  from  all  the  scorching  heat 
That  grips  this  brick-walled  city  street. 
And  it  was  I  who  bade  them  go, 
Though  she,  dear  heart,  protested  so, 
And  vowed  I'd  find  no  joy  at  all, 
Nor  any  peace,  in  Bachelor's  Hall. 
I  laughed  at  that,  but  she  was  right; 
I  never  knew  a  sadder  night 
Than  this,  while  thus  I  tread,  alone, 
These  silent  halls  I  call  my  own. 
I  never  thought  this  place  could  change 
So  utterly  and  seem  so  strange. 
The  night  is  hot,  and  yet  a  chill 
Pervades  the  house;  it  is  so  still. 
153 


I54  NIGHT  /.V  n  AC  1 11- LOR' S  HALL. 

I  miss  the  living  atmosphere 

That  comforts  me  when  they  are  here; 

I  miss  the  sigh,  long-drawn  and  deep, 

The  music  of  refreshing  sleep, 

That  undulates  the  gentle  breast 

Of  weary  motherhood  at  rest. 

And  in  the  unaccustomed  gloom 

That  shrouds  the  small  adjoining  room 

I  miss  the  moans,  the  muffled  screams, 

Of  childhood  troubled  in  its  dreams. 

And  is  this  all?     Nay!  more  I  miss 

The  strong,  heart-thrilling  joy.  the  bliss 

Of  warding,  with  protecting  arm, 

Between  these  precious  hearts  and  harm. 

O!  sing  your  song,  all  ye  who  roam, 

Your  wistful  song  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home, 

But,  though  unhappy  is  your  lot, 

You  will  not  find  a  sadder  spot 

In  all  the  world  than  Home,  when  they 

Who  make  it  Home  have  gone  away. 


THE   INDOMITABLE   CELT. 

ALTHOUGH  the  joy's  denied  to  me 

This  blessed  "Patrick's  Day" 
To  be  where  I  would  wish  to  be 

And  whistle  Care  away, 
My  mem'ry  lives  within  me  still; 

So  I  may  close  my  eyes 
And  fancy  I  can  feel  the  thrill 

Of  spring  from  Irish  skies, 
And  make  myself  believe  to-day 

I'm  off  with  my  colleen 
To  Clogher's,  where  the  pipers  play 

"The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 

It's  cold  and  drear  in  this  far  land, 

And  winter's  skies  are  gray, 
And  there's  no  sign  that  spring's  at  hand 

This  drear  St.  Patrick's  Day. 
But  though  no  shamrocks  brave  the  air 

Of  this  new  home  of  mine, 
I've  -found  a  bit  of  green  to  wear — 

This  sprig  of  Northern  pine. 
So  I'll  be  joyful  as  I  may, 

And  dream  of  my  colleen 
And  Clogher's,  where  the  pipers  play 

"The  Wearing  of  the  Green." 
155 


DA  FAM'LY   MAN. 

I  AIM'  gon'  gatta  mad  so  queeck 

Like  w'at  I  use"  to  do. 
I  gon'  geeve  up  dees  ogly  treeck 

Of  speakin'  swear-words,  too. 
An'  now  w'en  com'sa  bada  keed 

For  call  me  "Dago!" — wal, 
I  ain'  gon'  do  like  w'at  I  deed 

An*  tal  heem  "gotohal!" 
Eef  som'  one  com'  for  makin*  fool 

Weeth  me,  I  show  dem  how 
I  jus'  can  smile  an'  keepa  cool — 

I  gon'  be  good  man  now. 

I  am  too  prouda  man  to-day 

For  wanta  swear  an'  fight, 
An'  I  no  care  w'at  bad  keeds  say 

For  makin'  me  excite'. 
So  eef  som'body  com'  an'  try 

For  makin'  fool  weeth  me, 
I  justa  gon'  be  dignifi* 

Like  fam'ly  man  should  be. 
Las'  night  da  doctor  bring  my  wife 

A  baby  girl.     Dat's  how 
I  am  so  proud.     You  bat  my  life, 

I  gon'  be  good  man  now! 
156 


DA  FIGHTIN'  IRISHMAN. 

IRISHMAN  he  mak'  me  seeck! 
He  ees  gat  excite'  so  queeck, 

An'  so  queeck  for  fightin',  too, 
An',  baysides,  you  nevva  know 
How  you  gona  please  heem.     Sc 

W'ata  deuce  you  gona  do? 

Wen  I  work  een  tranch  wan  day 
Irish  boss  he  com'  an'  say: 
"Evra  wan  een  deesa  tranch, 
I  no  care  eef  he  ees  Franch, 
Anglaice,  Dago,  Dootch  or  w'at, 
Evra  wan  he  musta  gat 
Leetla  pieca  green  to  show 
For  da  San  Patricio. 
Dees  ees  Irish  feasta  day. 
Go  an'  gat  som'  green!"  he  say, 
"An'  eef  you  no  do  eet,  too, 
I  gon'  poncha  head  on  you!" 
So  I  gat  som'  green  to  show 
For  da  San  Patricio. 
157 


l58  DA  rn'.imx'  IRISHMAN. 

Bimcby,  'nuddcr  Irishman 
He  ees  com*  where  I  am  stan', 
An'  he  growl  at  me  an1  say: 
"Wat  you  wearin'  dat  for,  eh? 
Mebbe  so  you  thccnk  you  be 
Gooda  Irishman  like  me. 
Green  ees  jus'  for  Irishman, 
No  for  dumb  Eyetalian! 
Tak'  eet  off!"  he  say,  an',  my! 
He  ees  ponch  me  ecu  da  eye! 

Irishman  he  mak'  me  sceck! 
He  ees  gat  excite'  so  queeck, 

An'  so  queeck  for  fightin',  too, 
An',  baysides,  you  nevva  know 
How  you  gona  please  heem.     So 

W'ata  deuce  you  gona  do? 


THE  WEDDING  GUEST. 

WHENEVER  you're  a  wedding  guest 

Be  jolly  as  you  can, 
Endeavoring  your  level  best 

To  be  a  "funny  man." 
Don't  get  the  notion  in  your  head 

That  you  were  bidden  there 
To  see  an  earnest  couple  wed, 

And  merely  wish  the  pair 
All  peace  and  joy  along  the  way 

That  they  have  just  begun. 
O!  no,  be  gay!     Remember,  pray, 

A  wedding's  simply  fun. 

A  bride  and  groom  are  often  prone 

To  take  a  sober  view 
Of  life  and  duties  like  their  own, 

And  so  it's  up  to  you 
To  counteract  this  sense  of  gloom 

With  your  peculiar  mirth. 
So  just  bombard  that  bride  and  groom 

With  jokes  for  all  your  worth. 
Displeasure  they,  of  course,  may  show 

At  some  things  that  are  done; 
Don't  mind  them,  though;  they  ought  to  know 

A  wedding's  simply  fun. 
159 


160  THE  WEDDING  GUEST. 

You  may  begin  by  throwing  rice 

And  shoes,  and  after  that 
An  ancient  egg  or  two  are  nice 

And  come  in  very  pat. 
Of  course  their  carriage  should  be  decked 

With  placards  weird  and  queer; 
To  this  the  bridegroom  may  object, 

But  bang  him  on  the  ear! 
If  after  that  the  silly  wight 

Should  still  kick  up  his  heels, 
Explode  a  stick  of  dynamite 

Beneath  the  carriage  wheels. 
This  move  will  take  them  by  surprise, 

If  it  is  neatly  done, 
And  surely  make  them  realize 

A  wedding's  simply  fun. 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

WEN  Gran'-pa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I'm  jist  as  glad  as  I  kin  be; 
'Cause  he's  the  bestest  friend  I  got, 
An'  in   his  pockets  they's  a  lot 
Of  candies,  sugar-cakes  an'  things 
Like  dear  ole  Gran'-pa  always  brings. 
An'  he'll  say:     "Now,  my  little  dear, 
Let's  see  w'at's  in  this  pocket  here;" 
And  I  put  in  my  hand  and  take 
Some  candy  out  or  else  some  cake. 
'Nen  Gran'-pa  laughs,  an'  so  do  I; 
He'll  play  he's  s'prised  an'  say:     "O!  My! 
I  wonder  how  that  got  in  there, 
Now  w'at  do  I  git  fur  my  share?" 
I  laugh,  an'  climb  right  up  an'  kiss 
Him  where  his  tickly  whiskers  is. 
He  hugs  me  tight,  an'  sez:     "Oho! 
Here's  jist  the  goodest  boy  I  know." 
An'  I  am  good  as  I  kin  be 
Wen  Gran'-pa  takes  me  on  his  knee. 
161 


162  THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

When  Papa  takes  me  on  his  knee 
I  ain't  so  glad  as  I  might  be. 
He  ain't  as  nice  as  Gran'-pa  wuz, 
For  he  don't  do  like  Gran'-pa  does. 
He  on'y  does  it  w'en  he's  mad, 
An'  w'en  he  sez  I'm  awful  bad. 
He  don't  like  Gran'-pa's  "carryin's-on." 
Fur  onct  w'en  Gran'-pa'd  been  an'  gone 
He  told  Ma:    "Say,  it  drives  ma  wild 
The  way  your  Pa  jist  sp'iles  that  child," 
An'  'nen  he  maked  a  grab  fur  me 
An'  upside-downed  me  on  his  knee. 
An'  says,  "Now  if  it's  in  the  woo«l 
I'll  see  if  I  can't  make  you  good." 
An'  w'en  Pa  let  me  off  his  knee 
I  promised  him  how  good  I'd  be. 


DA  STYLEESHA  WIFE. 

GIUSEPPE,  da  barber,  ees  catcha  da  wife! 

O!  my,  you  weell  laugh  w'en  you  see  w'at  he  gat. 
She  gotta  da  face  ees  so  sharp  like  da  knife — 

He  say  "ees  no  styleesh  for  face  to  be  fat." 
Her  fingers,  so  skeenny,  ees  notheeng  but  bone; 

You  "fraid  dey  weell  bust  w'en  you  go  for  shak'  han' 
He  say:     "Dat'sa  sign  she  ees  vera  high-tone', 

She  no  gotta  han's  like  two  bonch  da  banan'." 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk  dat 
For  talk  een  hees  hat? 
W'at  good  eesa  wife  eef  she  don'ta  be  fat? 

Giuseppe  he  tal  me  I  no  ondrastan' 

Da  'Merican  lady  so  gooda  like  heem; 
He  tal  me  hees  wife  ees  da  "swell  'Mericar," 

An'  looka  so  styleesh  baycause  she  ees  "sleem." 
I  tal  heem  da  "styleeshness"  notta  so  good 

For  keepa  da  house  an'  for  helpin'  her  mooch 
To  nursa  da  baby  an'  carry  da  wood. 

He  say:     "I  no  care  eef  she  nevva  do  sooch." 
Ha!  w'at  you  theenk  dat 
For  talk  een  hees  hat? 
W'at  good  eesa  wife  eef  she  don'ta  be  fat? 
163 


THE  KETTLE'S  SONG  OF  HOME. 

AIN'T  berry  menny  people  w'at'll  listen  to  a  niggah, 

Or  Mow  dey's  enny  sense  in  w'at  he  say, 
But  I  gwine  to  gib  de  'sperience  ob  mah  feelin's,  an'  I 

figgah 

Dat  dey's  quite  a  smaht  ob  people  t'inks  mah  way. 
Wen  a  man  begins  a-shoutin'  'bout  de  good  t'ings  dat 

he's  missin', 

Kickin'  kase  dey  ain't  no  fo'tune  in  his  job, 
Let  'im  go  home  to  his  kitchen,  an'  set  down  a  while  an' 

listen 
To  de  singin'  ob  de  kittle  on  de  hob. 

De  rich  man  kin  inhabitate  a  palace  ef  he  wishes, 

\Vif  chiny-war'  an'  pictuahs  on  de  wall, 
An'  kin  lay  on  velvet  sofers  an'  eat  offn  golden  dishes, 

But  I  wouldn'  swap  mah  kitchen  fo'  it  all. 
Fo'  hit  wouldn'  seem  laik  home  to  me,  but  'ceptin'  I 

could  listen, 

A-puffin'  at  de  backy  in  mah  cob, 
While  de  good  Lawd  seemed  a-speakin'  ob  a  home-like 

kind  o'  blessin' 

Frough  de  singin'  ob  de  kittle  on  de  hob. 
164 


TO  THE  ATHEIST. 

SAY!  you  gat  to  hal  weeth  your  talk! 

I  gotta  da  troubla  my  own. 
You  please  me  by  taka  da  walk — 

I  wanta  for  sect  here  alone. 
Eh?     Wat?     Yes,  I  s'pose  I  am  dumb, 

An'  so  you  no  maka  me  wise 
No  matter  how  moocha  you  com' 

For  tryin'  to  open  my  eyes. 
Jus'  s'posa  my  eyes  dey  are  blind — 

So  blind  like  you  theenk  dem  to  be — 
More  beautiful  theengs  dey  can  find 

Dan  w'at  you  are  able  to  see. 
You  want  I  should  tal  you  da  sight 

I  see  w'en  I  sect  here  alone? 
You  wanta  for  see?.  Alia  right, 

I  geeve  you  my  eyes  for  your  own. 
Com',  look!  dere  is  beautiful  girl, 

So  sweeta,  so  good  an'  so  true; 
Ah!  you  are  a  keeng  of  da  worl' 

To  know  dat  she  smila  for  you. 
165 


!66  TO  THE  ATHEIST. 

Now,  sec!  she  ecs  gccvin'  her  ban* 

Forevra  da  wifa  to  be 
To  "no-good-for-notheenga"  man— 

Dat  no  gooda  man,  eet  ees  me! 
Now — presto! — da  peectura  change. 

Da  beautiful  girl  eesa  gon'; 
Da  man  ees  look  olda  an'  strange 

An'  he  ees  jus'  seettin'  alone. 
But  steell  you  can  see  weeth  hees  eyes, 

So  blind,  like  you  say,  an'  so  dumb, 
An  angela  up  in  da  skies 

Dat  smila  an'  wait  teell  he  com'. 
You  sneer;  you  no  gotta  belief. 

You  tal  me  we  die  an'  we  be 
Like  dogs,  an'  you  com'  lika  thief 

For  steala  my  faitha  from  me. 
Wai,  even  eef  you  no  be  dam, 

An'  eef  w'at  I  see  ees  no  true, 
I  radder  be  dumb  like  I  am 

Dan  wisa  beeg  foola  like  you! 


AT  HOME. 

AT  home  to-night,  alone  with  Dot, 
I  loaf  my  soul  and  care  not  what 

In  worlds  beyond  may  come  or  go. 

Four  walls,  a  roof,  to  brave  the  snow, 
Suffice  to  bound  this  Eden  spot. 

Dot  has  her  sewing  things;  I've  got 
My  pipe,  a  glass  of  something  hot 
And  Dot  herself.     The  world's  aglow, 
At  home  to-night. 

As  lovers  in  some  golden  plot 

The  poet  weaves  of  Camelot, 
We  feel  apart  from  earth.    We  know 
The  servant  in  the  hall  below 

Will  say  to  all  who  call  we're  not 
At  home  to-night. 


167 


TO  AN  OLD  LOVER. 

THERE  is  silvery  frost  on  your  hair,  old  boy, 

There  are  lines  on  your  forehead,  too; 
But  your  clear  eyes  speak  of  the  peace  and  joy 

That  dwell  in  the  heart  of  you. 
For  the  passing  of  youth  you  have  no  regret, 

No  sighs  for  the  summer  gloam 
And  the  lovers'  moon.    They  are  with  you  yet 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 

In  your  summer  of  youth,  in  that  sunny  hour 
That  will  come  to  you  never  again, 
168 


TO  AN  OLD  LOVER.  169 

When  you  wooed  your  love  as  the  bee  the  flower, 

The  sweets  that  you  gathered  then 
You  have  hived  and  stored  for  your  later  life, 

And  your  heart  is  the  honeycomb — 
Ah!  I've  seen  your  face  when  you  kissed  your  wilt 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 

O!  you  rare  old  lover!     O!  faithful  knight, 

With  your  sweetheart  of  long  ago. 
You  are  many  days  from  the  warmth  and  light 

Of  the  summers  you  used  to  know; 
But  you  need  not  yearn  for  the  glamor  and  gold 

Of  the  fields  you  were  wont  to  roam — 
O!  the  light  for  the  hearts  that  are  growing  old 

Is  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  home. 


TREASURE-TROVE. 

THERE'S  a  letter  come  this  minute 

From  across  the  boundin'  sea, 
And  it  has  a  treasure  in  it 

That  delights  the  soul  of  me. 
Not  a  shinin'  bit  o'  gold 
Does  this  blessed  letther  hold, 
But  a  priceless  gem  as  ancient  as  the  world  is  old. 

'Tis  meself,  to-morrow  mornin', 

Will  be  proud  to  let  ye  see 
This  most  precious  gem  adornin' 

Of  the  Sunday  hat  of  me. 
Tis  a  little  sprig  o'  green 
Of  the  sort  I've  often  seen 
My  grandfather  wearin'  in  his  ould  caubeen. 

Then  here's  to  the  trefoil, 

An'  may  it  grow  in  free  soil 
That  knows  not  the  dominion  of  a  Saxon  King  or  Queen; 

The  Shamrock  of  old  Erin! 

That  the  patriot's  still  wearin' 
Where  the  whole  world  may  see  it,  in  his  ould  caubeen. 


170 


THE   LITTLE   BOY. 

THE  little  boy  Jack  was  a  Jack  o'  Hearts, 

For  every  one  loved  the  lad, 
And  the  birds  from  near  and  foreign  parts 

Were  some  of  the  friends  he  had. 
The  man  in  the  Moon  was  his  friend  at  night. 

When  little  Jack's  prayers  were  said, 
And  his  doting  mother  had  dimmed  the  light 

And  cuddled  him  up  in  bed, 
He'd  lie  and  talk  to  his  friend  in  the  skies 

Through  the  casement  open  wide, 
And  ask  if  the  stars  were  not  the  eyes 

Of  good  little  boys  who  had  died. 

O!  the  Moon-Man  laughed  at  this  odd  conceit 

Of  his  little  boy  friend  on  earth, 
And  the  wee  stars,  clustered  about  his  feet. 

Just  winked  at  his  childish  mirth. 
But  once  when  the  moon  rose  over  the  hill 

And  shone  on  the  cottage  wall, 
The  birds  in  the  neighboring  trees  were  still 

And  a  gloom  hung  over  all. 
Then  the  Moon-Man  wondered  much  of  Jack, 

And  he  pondered  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  he  saw  two  stars  in  the  sky  at  his  back 

That  he  never  had  seen  before. 

171 


A  SONG  TO  ONE. 

IF  few  are  won  to  read  my  lays 
And  offer  me  a  word  of  praise, 

If  there  are  only  one  or  two 

To  take  my  rhymes  and  read  them  through, 
I  may  not  claim  the  poet's  bays. 

I  care  not,  when  my  Fancy  plays 
Its  one  sweet  note,  if  it  should  raise 
A  host  of  listeners  or  few — 
If  you  are  one. 

The  homage  that  my  full  heart  pays 
To  Womanhood  in  divers  ways, 

Begins  and  ends,  my  love,  in  you. 

My  lines  may  halt,  but  strong  and  true 
My  soul  shall  sing  through  all  its  days, 
If  you  are  won. 


172 


12274 


DATE  DUE 


lt*43 


CAYLOMD 


m.NTtO  IN  U    »    A. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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